Because I Could Not Stop for Death
by CSIGeekFan
Summary: My response to the season finale. Call it anti-CD. SPOILER THROUGH SEASON 8 FINALE. Summary: As she fingered the thin plain gold, she watched Grissom sit up, and sat up herself when he said, “Good morning. Do you feel any different?”
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death  
Rating:** T for now, possibly M for future chapters  
**Author:** CSIGeekFan  
**Words:** 1700 (approximately)  
**Pairings:** Grissom/Sara, Team  
**Genre:** Drama / NON-CD  
**Spoilers: **Season 8 thru Finale  
**Summary:** "As they approached the top of the hill, Grissom watched his CSIs stop just a couple of feet in front of a familiar headstone…"  
**Author's Note:** The season finale ticked me off… this is my take on what will happen in Season 9. **(WIP)**

**CHAPTER 1**

They walked slowly through the graveyard, weaving respectfully between the rows and rows of concrete and marble headstones. Up the slope, Nick Stokes, Catherine Willows, and Greg Sanders made their way to the small grouping of trees, with Gil Grissom, Jim Brass, and Conrad Ecklie following sedately behind a few steps.

Grissom watched the trio, knowing the renewed grief they felt and wishing once again he could have spared them the pain of watching a man they all knew and loved fall from grace… and life. Somewhere in there, he was sure he'd missed the clues, and lay the blame solely at his own feet. Glancing to his right and left, he saw the stoic faces of a captain of detectives and assistant lab director take on the roles needed to get through the ordeal again; for yet once more, they were visiting Warrick Brown's gravestone, only this time it was to deliver the news that Warrick's killer had been brought to justice.

As they approached the top of the hill, Grissom watched his CSIs stop just a couple of feet in front of a familiar headstone, respectfully bowing their heads. Catherine leaned into Nick a little. Grissom had no doubt her face would be tear-stained, and her make-up would be smudged by the trails of moisture seeping from her eyes. He also knew Nick would be choking on emotion, as he stood over where they'd buried his partner. Greg would be holding his emotions in check, wishing to be anywhere else, but feeling it not just his duty as a fellow CSI, but as Warrick's friend, to be right there at that time.

All six of them stood silently, with only the bitter breeze breaking the silence, as it rustled through the bare branches of a copse of maple trees. Taking the opportunity, Grissom looked around them and for a moment felt the peace of the cemetery… the stillness only a final resting place could bring.

The CSI supervisor allowed the environment – not the people or the crime or the job – to fill his senses. The crisp cool winter air of Las Vegas seemed untainted, as if the moment truly meant something to the normally pollution-ridden city, and it had decided to give the mourners of the fallen officer a moments respite from sin. Below his feet, Grissom imagined the grass growing once again come spring, when the cold winter nights would give way to a gentler climate.

"He was a good CSI," Greg stated, his voice its normal, strong pattern. Very few would have caught the nearly undetectable wavering quality, had they not known the man.

Grissom was the one to finally state, "He didn't deserve this. For all his faults, he didn't deserve to be shot by McKeen." The fierceness and anger that rang through his voice did not go unnoticed by his co-workers, and for a moment, his CSIs looked to each other, no doubt wondering at the quality of his tone.

Silence reigned, as everyone took a moment of respectful silence, with heads bowed as they are wont to do when one stands facing of a headstone. Grissom finally broke the quiet when he said, "The past six months taught us a lot."

He almost grinned when he realized how easily that statement had captured the attention of his CSIs. Something within Grissom sighed softly, not in resignation over their predictability, but in contentment in knowing how intelligent and committed his team had become over their years together.

Stepping forward, Grissom laid a hand on the white marble headstone, tapped the flat top of it lightly with his fingers, and turned to face the men and woman with which he'd shared so much of his life and his career.

"The undersheriff is being indicted," Brass stated with a gleam of satisfaction; then a wicked grin graced his face and he added, "ADA Kline is having a ball taking him down. Turns out she can't stand the bastard."

"We were lucky," Grissom retorted. "Nobody else was killed, and all of us were neck deep in this mess." Just as quickly as those words fell from his mouth, months of bone-deep fatigue weighed down on every muscle in his body. Taking off his glasses, he dropped them into the chest pocket of his button-down shirt and _really_ looked at the men and women who had made his life so much richer… so much better.

In the respectful and sober silence, Grissom watched each of his CSIs turn inward. Each had struggled in the past months, so when they became reflective Grissom wasn't surprised in the least. Instead, he watched the environment around him, noting the shadows cast by the morning sun, the small group of mourners over another grave, and the silver sedan that pulled to a stop at the bottom of the hill.

A small, sad smile crossed his face for a moment, and Grissom addressed the group, "It's time, guys." He missed the looks of confusion as he gazed past those in front of him.

The smile became genuine as he watched a man and woman slowly make their way up the hill. Giving himself a mental shake, Grissom sobered his stance and face before stating, "I want you to understand something. You are the best of the best. Of that, I have _no_ doubt."

As he moved toward the group huddled and facing him, they parted, and Grissom stepped past them, grinning as Sara Sidle approached, holding and tugging the hand of a very much alive Warrick Brown.

**X X X**

Grissom pulled Sara to him, ignoring the people behind him, all stunned into silence. He grinned at the sudden shouts as he said, "Hey," to her, and with his hand around her back and resting on her waist, he smiled slyly and slowly turned.

Catherine had been the first to move… rapidly… from shock to anger to relief, as she approached Warrick, and laid a hand gently on his ebony cheek. On a sob, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and hugged him close. The tears that had _finally_ dried during Grissom's speech spilled over once more.

The CSI supervisor glanced at Sara before finally saying, "I think this is the first time I've seen you speechless, Catherine."

"How?" Nick demanded, his voice hoarse with raw emotion, staring unblinking at Warrick. He shook his head, as if to clear his mind from a waking dream, and his voice was thick with tears when he asked again, "How?"

Without a word, Warrick stepped away from Catherine, placed both hands on Nick's shoulders, and pulled the Texan into a tight hug. Time seemed suspended, as the two men embraced. Grissom watched, a half-smile on his face, but noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. Greg had made his way over to Sara, and stood there staring at the woman. Releasing his hand from her waist, Grissom felt her move away a bit as she turned and pulled Greg into a quick hug, followed by a tussle of the young man's hair by her hand.

The world fell away, as friends quietly (and at times tearfully) reunited.

Grissom stepped back and watched his team together for the first time in well over a year. It took everything he had to maintain that mask of detachment as Nick reached out and followed Sara's lead by ruffling Greg's hair. Catherine smiled at Sara and gave her a hug and a genuinely happy smile. Warrick smiled at all of them, accepting and giving hugs. On the outside Grissom watched; finally feeling a bit of peace tentatively peek through the aching tiredness that seemed always on the edge of his periphery.

No one noticed that Warrick never spoke, until Nick finally asked, "Where the hell have you been, Rick?"

Warrick opened his mouth and despondently dropped his head to his chest. Turning to Sara, he gave her a helpless gesture.

Sara reached a hand over, squeezed his upper arm, and quietly said, "His vocal chords were severed."

Stepping forward, Grissom smiled and shook Warrick's hand, before he said, "It's good to see you again, Warrick. You look better than you did a couple of months ago."

Although Warrick's face contorted to a guffaw, the laugh escaped only as a loud breath. He mouthed, _"Thanks a lot,"_ and smiled wide.

Moving back from the group a step, Grissom looked to Brass and Ecklie when he stated, "We have a lot of explaining to do. It's time for them to know what _really_ happened. It's time to call _all _the players together."

Neither Brass nor Ecklie had moved since the sensational arrival of Warrick and Sara until that moment. Stepping forward, Ecklie shook Warrick's hand and smiled at the former CSI, while Brass pulled Sara into an awkward, but nonetheless heartfelt hug. "You're looking good, Sara," he stated, and then tilted his head back to smile at the brunette in his arms.

Switching positions, Brass moved over to do the manly thing of shaking Warrick's hand with his right hand and smack Warrick's shoulder with his left, while Ecklie stepped in front of Sara and smiled mildly. The smooth politically inclined demeanor was nowhere to be seen, and in its place was a warm smile, when Ecklie said, "It's good to see you again." Discreetly jerking his head toward Warrick, he looked her in the eye and his voice held nothing but respect when he added, "Thank you for everything you've done and the risks you took, Sara."

When Grissom raised his hand in the air, the crew around him began to quiet down, until only the occasional sniff could be heard.

"I'm certain you all have questions," he soberly stated. Grinning at Sara, sinking deep into those brown eyes he often recited poetry to, he said, "Welcome home, dear."

As the questions bombarded him, he tuned them out, used to doing so over years of working with his team… except when Catherine asked, "Why didn't you tell us, Gil? Why didn't you tell us Warrick was alive?"

At that single question, he turned his head, looked his second-in-command in the eye, and soberly stated, "Because it could have killed you." More quietly, he added, "And it could've killed Warrick and Sara."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: ** CBS/Alliance owns CSI. I just don't happen to like that they killed off Warrick.  
**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoy this next chapter. Please leave a review - constructive criticism is _always_ welcome.

**X X X - C S I - X X X**

Besides the logistics of trying to fit everyone into the living area of his home, Grissom had to contend with Sara's and Warrick's debriefing

Besides the impossible logistics of trying to cram everyone into the small living area of the condo, Grissom had to contend with Sara's and Warrick's debriefing. Brass graciously offered to take their statements at the crime lab, which is how the entire group found themselves casually ensconced in Grissom's office rather than an interrogation room at the police department.

Surprisingly, not a lot had been said between the cemetery and the office. Watching with a sad smile on his face, Grissom wondered how it had come to _this_… to the longing, almost desperate touches between friends, as if each caress gave a sense of reality and relief.

Leaned back in his chair, Grissom's gaze landed on Sara who had pulled a chair within touching distance. For the first time in months, he felt a little of the tension in his neck ease. When she gave him one of her lopsided grins, he nodded at her with a hint of subtle affection that had her smile widening. For a moment, he let himself believe that they were alone and he bored his gaze into her, letting his desire and absolute joy in her flare between them.

He damn near stuttered when he heard a loud purposeful cough, followed by a stifled laugh come from Nick, who sat on one end of the couch.

As Sara's smile grew to crease her cheeks, Grissom watched her give a bold wink and shook his head, wondering why at his age he felt like he'd just gotten caught making out with his girlfriend under the bleachers at school. With a quick boyish grin at Sara, he looked around the room with hooded eyes.

While Nick sat on one end of the couch, Catherine sat on the other. Crowded between them was Warrick, leaning back looking relaxed with a big grin on his face. His arms were extended, and while he drummed his fingers on the top of the couch behind Nick, his other arm was draped over Catherine's shoulder.

Greg sat in the chair nearest the couch, his eyes wandering between the different players of the room. Sitting close together were Ecklie and Brass, and next to them was an empty chair.

"Are you going to tell us what's been going on?" Nick drawled, his face stony with intent, the lazy grin now gone. It was a look Grissom recognized easily. When Nick got that particular expression on his face, the Texan was generally pissed off.

"We have one more player," Grissom mildly stated. No sooner had the words escaped his mouth before the door opened and Al Robbins walked in with his normal limping gait.

"Sorry for being late," Robbins said to Grissom. Glancing around the room he gave a stiff, satisfied nod at the return of Sara and Warrick and took the remaining open seat. Giving Warrick a curious grimace, the coroner asked, "What's it like to come back from the dead? I hear there's a white light at the other end."

Warrick responded by smiling wide, chuckling silently with only a hazy sound of breath passing over his lips and his shoulders shaking with mirth. Pulling his hands from the back of the couch, he leaned forward, glanced at Sara, and awkwardly signed, "Tell Doc I prefer dark."

The lopsided grin Grissom adored was back as she conveyed the message. As he gathered his thoughts, the laughter ringing through the room died down, and silence eventually once again descended.

Quietly, he looked at the players of the 'game' and waited for each to give their assent to tell the whole story – every detail. Turn by turn, they nodded their support… Brass, Ecklie, Robbins; and then Warrick gave a contemplative nod. Turning to Sara, who had taken perhaps the biggest risk besides Warrick, he quietly waited for her lips to quirk a little in an awkward, and in some ways shy, smile and accompanying, "Okay," before starting.

Shutting his eyes briefly, he put the events in order. Opening them slowly, Grissom focused on Nick, who like Warrick, now sat forward in his seat. "Well Nick," Grissom stated, "I think the story starts with you."

"Yeah," Nick replied quietly. "I guess I was the first on-scene." Closing his eyes, Nick's voice came out soft at first, turning desperate within seconds.

**X X X - C S I - X X X**

Nick stood up from his chair shortly after Warrick took off. He'd watched the waitress head to the back of the restaurant, and around the corner into the kitchen, and so he followed behind her trying to work up the nerve to ask her out. It wasn't the first time he'd noticed the new employee at Frank's slinging food from kitchen to table and making change.

"Hey," he softly said, injecting a little extra southern charm into his voice and charming smile. "I just wanted to tell you that was a mighty fine meal."

"Thank you," she replied with something less than a smile on her face. "I'm glad you liked the food." Then, ignoring every ounce of charm oozing from him, she raised an eyebrow, dropped her face to a more sedate expression, and said, "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work."

Nick raised a fist up to his chest and yanked it away as if pull a knife from his wound, while he chuckled. "Ouch!" he replied. "Tell me you at least have a band-aid to cover the wound," he replied, giving her the first true 'Nick' smile.

Dropping the defensive stance nurtured over time to deflect the passes made by men, her lips turned up and she said, "Look, you're probably a nice guy. I'm just not interested," and left him standing outside the entrance to the kitchen once again as she retreated.

Nick's mind was buzzing pretty loud over the outright rejection mixed with something akin to being dazzled by a woman that wasn't just pretty, but a bit sassy as well – a great combination to him.

He didn't hear the first pop… it just didn't register. The second, though – it came through loud and clear, chilling him to the core as every hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Something was horribly, horribly wrong, and his heart began to pound out of his chest as he rushed from the diner into the dark Vegas night.

"Oh God," he rasped, coming to a halt at the top of the dim alley, lit up only by neon and a couple of backdoor bulbs. "Warrick. WARRICK!" He couldn't feel his feet hit the pavement. All he could hear was his own harsh breathing and blood pounding like a raging river.

Assessing the situation as rapidly as possible and pushing back the choking bile that threatened to erupt his meal from his stomach, Nick tilted Warrick's head back and covered the man's neck with his hand as best he could, while he used his other hand to flip open his cell and dial dispatch.

"This is CSI Nick Stokes. We've got an officer down. Send a bus and contact CSI Supervisor Grissom…"

Grissom arrived within minutes – on the heels of the ambulance – to find Nick's light jacket wrapped around Warrick's neck. When the EMTs tried to get Nick to step away from the car so they could get to Warrick, Nick couldn't even respond. Instead, he was saying, "You'll be okay, man. Come on and fight it. You'll be okay. Fight it, Warrick." It took Grissom laying his hands over Nick's trembling ones before the CSI finally looked up with shell-shocked eyes.

Nick didn't step away until Grissom smiled at him with a confidence he didn't feel, and said, "It's okay, Nicky. Warrick'll be okay, but you've got to let the medics do their job."

Glancing down at his blood soaked hands Nick gave a single choking sob and said, "I can't stop the bleeding."

When Catherine arrived a few minutes later as Warrick was being loaded onto the gurney by a couple of EMTs, she passed by Grissom in a flash, opting to ride in the ambulance to the hospital. Right on her heels was Brass, who'd heard the call for 'Officer Down' and happened to be nearby on another call.

The detective parked at the end of the alley, the light on his dashboard flashing red across the dark pavement and sides of the building. Exiting quickly, he made his way to Grissom with an ambling speed not particularly graceful, but effective nonetheless. Approaching the CSI supervisor, Brass's lips thinned and he simply said, "Warrick," when he recognized the victim's car.

"Yeah," Grissom replied. "Shot at least twice." Absently Grissom glanced in the direction of the ambulance as it flipped on its siren and lights and sped off.

"What do you know?" Brass asked, his voice giving away nothing he might feel.

Nick stood in the middle of the alley, staring at the flashing light on the dashboard of Brass's car. Slowly, he began to pull his senses back with the arrival of the detective, and the burning in his chest receded as he approached Warrick's car from the passenger side. The window was down, and on the front seat laid a gun. Blood coated the driver's door and the headliner. As he reached in to grab the gleaming silver weapon, Grissom roughly pulled his arm back.

"Nick! Don't!" he shouted. "Don't touch anything," he said more gently, placing his hand on the young man's shoulder. When Nick's brown eyes finally met his, Grissom quietly said, "Go to the hospital."

Years of training kicked in, because something in Grissom's voice was… off. The Texan stared into his supervisor's eyes when he asked, "Are you coming?" Nick had seen Grissom angry or irritated before. More than once he'd seen him sad or contemplative. He'd never seen his supervisor's eyes go hard before. A shiver ran down his back when Grissom's face went stone cold.

Stepping back from the scene, Nick walked to the end of the street and quietly asked, "We'll see you soon?" only to receive an abrupt nod from a grim looking Grissom.

**X X X – C S I – X X X**

"You eventually met up with us at the hospital," Nick murmured. "But not until hours later."

Grissom didn't look Nick in the eyes at first when he replied, "I had something I needed to do."

"I think that would make the next part yours," Catherine stated, raising a brow at Grissom as if to dare him to tell his portion of the tale.

While Grissom's lips may have turned up, it wasn't a smile that formed, but rather an expression of pained contemplation. Looking at Ecklie, he said, "In case I never said it, Conrad… thank you for trusting me, even if I had no proof."


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death (Chapter 3)  
Rating: **T for now (but could change in later chapters)  
**Author: CSIGeekFan  
Pairings:** Grissom/Sara, Warrick, Team  
**Genre:** Drama, **Anti-CD  
Words:** 2100 (approximately)**  
Spoilers:** Thru Season 8 finale  
**Summary:** "As they approached the top of the hill, Grissom watched his CSIs stop just a couple of feet in front of a familiar headstone…"  
**Author's Note:** This is my take on what will happen in Season 9.  
**(WIP)**

**X X X – C S I – X X X**

"You're welcome," Ecklie said. With a grim smile he added, "Of course I trusted you, especially after what you said."

"What did I say?" murmured Grissom to himself, his face a study of concentration as he stared off into space and reached back to find the words from that long ago night, but couldn't quite grasp what he might have said. His voice was puzzled when he said, "I know I said that I couldn't trust cops anymore."

True to form, he chewed on the earpiece of his glasses while he thought back to when Nick had reluctantly and _finally_ left the scene of Warrick's shooting.

"You were covered in blood, Nick. I was afraid you'd never leave the scene and I didn't want you involved," Grissom stated, his brow furrowed in contemplation. He couldn't meet anyone's eyes when he quietly said, "The hardest part was my suspicion – not the proof or the evidence, but just the suspicion. And in this case it was enough."

"Yeah," Brass stated, thoughtfully. "In this case, your gut saved Warrick's life." More pointedly he looked around the room and muttered, "Quite possibly the lives of others, as well."

Flipping his blue eyes to Ecklie, Grissom gave him a curious grin and said, "You know, Conrad… I still don't have a clue why you went along with all this. Why you simply… believed me."

"Actually, Gil," Ecklie said, "it was when you said your _instincts_ were telling you that you were right." Shifting slightly in his chair, he continued, "If you'd had an iota of proof, I would've looked at it like any other case. But those weren't your words."

Curious, Warrick gave a soft whistle to get Grissom's attention and used his hands to ask, "What did you say?"

A cold, mirthless laugh escaped his lips as Grissom looked Warrick in the eye and replied, "Let me tell you about it."

**X X X – C S I – X X X**

"Christ, Gil," was all Brass could say standing in the alley in the dark of night, tucked back where even the perpetual neon of Las Vegas didn't provide much glow. He'd arrived in time to watch Nick leave about twenty minutes ago, and still felt like the entire scene behind Frank's was a surreal twist of reality. Dimly glowing red neon amplified the reflection off any blood that was not hidden in the shadows of the car's interior.

"I know, Jim," Grissom stated, walking the perimeter of the vehicle while he cautiously avoided touching anything. The flashlight he'd been using to illuminate the interior was flicked off and he turned to face Brass. "We were just having breakfast."

"Look, you should head to the hospital. Let Ecklie handle the scene," Brass offered.

"No," Grissom replied. Looking at the uniformed officers keeping the small crowd away from the alley, he added, "Not until I talk to Ecklie." Turning around, he hunched over to look inside the car once more, committing every splatter pattern, the gun… everything… to memory.

Grissom stood up straight from where he was bent at the waist and waited as the assistant lab director approached from the street. "Gil," Ecklie soberly called out in way of greeting. As he got closer, he asked, "What the hell happened?"

Grissom waited until Ecklie was within just a couple of feet before he quietly stated, "It's cops. Every fiber in my being tells me cops did this. Maybe Pritchard, maybe someone higher up the food change."

Knowing he had Ecklie's attention, Grissom continued, "I don't know who the hell to trust. Except you and Brass. My team. Al. I don't know that I can trust anyone else. You have to understand that. NO ONE goes near Warrick, unless it's one of us." He waited a heartbeat before he fiercely added, "I don't trust cops anymore."

While Grissom spoke, cold tendrils of dread hitched across Ecklie's chest. His shoulders hunched up as if to ward off an evil chill, and he started to interject, "We can't know who did this until we gather the evidence," but the graveyard supervisor was a step ahead.

"First, why would a low-level cop think he could ever get away with taking out Gedda? Second, if it was a random shooting, why would the gun still be on the seat? Third, who knew we would be here – that Warrick would be here? I've got three points before the scene has even been analyzed for evidence," Grissom explained, trying to control the pounding in his head.

With the edge of a sneer, he added, "It's cops. In the mix of it all, it comes back to that. And unless you want Warrick dead, you'll put aside the rivalry crap that's gone on for the last twenty years and LISTEN!"

As quickly as his voice had risen to yell the last of the statement at Ecklie, the tense rhythm of adrenaline rushing through his system left Grissom feeling utterly exhausted. With quiet weariness, Grissom nearly whispered, "I don't usually put much stock in what I can't see, Conrad." Rubbing his eyes, he sought and found Ecklie's gaze and peered hard when he said, "But I can _feel_ this."

**X X X – C S I – X X X**

When Grissom sat back in his office chair and twisted his neck around in order to flex away the tension that was seeping back into his muscles, everyone just stared at him.

Catherine finally broke the silence and said, "Well…" and left off, unable to think of anything to say.

Greg, on the other hand, had no problem with saying something. Leaning forward with a sober look on his face, the youngest CSI in the room said, "You had an idea it was McKeen?"

"Actually, no," Grissom replied. "I even thought about bringing him into what happened next, but decided the fewer who knew the better. It wasn't a game or a puzzle anymore."

**X X X – C S I – X X X**

The day shift CSIs had arrived and been sent back to the lab with evidence bags collected personally by Ecklie. The fact that he was going to handle the case himself wasn't lost on any of them, and he knew he'd have to find some way to show the members of day shift that he trusted them… that this case was simply _different_.

The sun had risen and in the afternoon scorching sun, Ecklie rubbed the back of his neck and top of his head with a handkerchief again. Under any other circumstances, most of the collection would have been delegated. Yet every time he tired even a little or began to swear at the sun, shaded only in spots by the shadow of the buildings around him, he remembered the look on Grissom's face.

Over the years, he'd known Grissom to become reflective at times. Some had labeled the graveyard supervisor unemotional. Yet Ecklie knew that sometimes detachment got the job done in the worst of circumstances. If he were being completely honest, Ecklie would admit that on some levels, Grissom was simply a better CSI – particularly in breeding undying loyalty in his people.

Brushing away those years of contention, Ecklie watched Warrick's car as it was loaded onto a flatbed truck to go back to the lab. All processing that could be completed on the scene was finished. He'd gone through the alley with a fine-tooth comb, and felt like he'd collected anything worthwhile.

Brass, who had never left the scene, approached Ecklie and said, "Are you about wrapped up here?"

"Yes," Ecklie answered. Tiredly, he rubbed his eyes and reached beyond the fatigue to ask, "Heard anything about Warrick?"

"Grissom called. He said Warrick made it through the first round of surgery," Brass replied, glancing at his wristwatch. "But you already knew that. It was hours ago," he murmured. Since then, it had been a waiting game.

While Ecklie loaded the last of the evidence into the back of the SUV, Brass leaned against the dark vehicle and watched. Ecklie loaded container after container and slammed down the lid just in time to hear the rumble of the truck haul Warrick's car out of the alley.

"What are you planning on doing?" Brass asked.

Giving it a moment of contemplation, Ecklie finally replied, "I'm going to have Day shift work some of the evidence. I already sent them back to the lab with the gun. We'll see what they come up with." Glancing around, he noted no one nearby when he lowered his voice and said, "I'll be handling the majority, but I at least need to make it _look_ like dayshift is working the case or run the risk of arousing suspicion." Shifting his gaze to the ground, he stared hard – at war with himself.

Eventually Ecklie murmured, "Are you as worried about the implications as I am?"

A grim smile graced Brass's face when he replied, "More than you know. I don't always understand how Grissom's brain works, but I've got a bad feeling that when this is over no one is going to come out unscathed."

Ecklie opened the driver's side door just as his phone began to buzz. Taking note of the caller ID, Ecklie said, "Hold on, Brass," and flipped it open. "Grissom. How's Warrick?"

The conversation was quick from the detective's point of view.

"Warrick is the same – in critical condition. It's a waiting game." Ecklie looked around, an strange sense of paranoia driving him and said, "Grissom wants to meet at his condo in two hours." He was trying as hard as he could to keep his tone cool, even though every nerve jumped with electric jolts.

"He doesn't want to be overheard," Ecklie stated, climbing into the driver's seat. Before he closed the vehicle's door, Ecklie looked Brass in the eye when he said, "One way or another, Grissom said Warrick is going to die."

**X X X – C S I – X X X**

"You know," Brass casually said to Grissom as the detective leaned back casually in his chair, "You sometimes tend to leave off with very cryptic remarks like that." Giving a sarcastic smile, he added, "But that's what we love about working with you."

Once the chuckles in Grissom's office died down, Catherine leaned back and tilted her head so her cascading blonde hair fell a bit over her face. She absently said, "You met that next night," as if piecing together a puzzle. Meeting Grissom's eyes, she said, "He went into surgery again that night."

Tears began to spill over when she whispered, "Warrick died twice and you weren't there." On a steady breath, she looked at Warrick and said, "You went into cardiac arrest, and they found more internal bleeding when they ran tests after reviving you. Then you died again on the table while they were trying to get the bleeding under control."

She remembered the accusation in her glare when she'd seen Grissom again that night, after he'd finally returned to the hospital. Every part of her had railed against the emotionless CSI supervisor. He should have been there, waiting with them. When a member of their makeshift family had been dying, he _should have_ been there.

Very quietly, she looked over at Grissom, held his gaze and whispered, "I never really forgave you for not being there." She drew in a watery breath, glanced at Warrick, and refocused on her long-time friend and mentor. "I think maybe I understand now," she added. The events of the past six months – the tension, the arguments, the loss of trust – all of it came back in an overwhelming surge, and Catherine had to duck her head for a moment to regain control of herself.

While Catherine struggled, Grissom took a moment to look at the members of his team. Catherine had more than once referred to them as 'family'. The blue of his eyes turned dark with months of pent-up emotion, but his voice was clear when he responded to her. "That's all right. I never forgave myself, either."

A taut silence filled the room, as Grissom shifted in obvious discomfort. After everyone tried _not_ to look at him, but snuck glances anyway, Doc Robbins finally broke the uncomfortable quiet.

"When I was 'covertly' brought to your house by Brass, and then after the meeting… I thought you were crazy, and I was nuts to go along with the plan." Robbins sat back in his chair, gave Grissom a wide grin, and said, "But then again, I see dead people."


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death (Chapter 4)  
Rating:** T (for now)  
**Author: CSIGeekFan  
Beta:** Seattlecsifan (to whom I owe so much)  
**Pairings:** Grissom/Sara, Warrick, Team  
**Words: **2500 (approximately)  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own CSI. But this is what I'd like to see in the premier.  
**Summary:** _The CSI supervisor snapped his head up and glared at Catherine. "You have a daughter," he ground out. "Did she really need to be an orphan?"_

**X X X**

Grissom leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees, and dropping his head to his hands. Staring at the floor, he listened to Al Robbins.

"Unfortunately, a lot of dead people I see are not pretty, and neither was Warrick when he died in the ICU before he went back into surgery," Robbins said.

Catherine interjected, "I called Grissom. How did you find out?" Then it clicked. The timing of everything. She laid out her theory, "You were at Grissom's. Your hush-hush meeting had started." The anger in her voice was unmistakable when she aimed, "You left us in the dark," directly at Grissom.

The CSI supervisor snapped his head up and glared at Catherine. "You have a daughter," he ground out. "Did she really need to be an orphan?"

Catherine stiffly leaned back against the couch. Every muscle strained at the back-board straight position, and her frown looked damn near painful to everyone in the room.

"You guys… I was losing Warrick, one way or another. I couldn't afford to lose all of you," Grissom said, feeling helpless yet again. It seemed the past year was an exercise in futility as he tried to maintain some semblance of control. _Control is nothing but a myth,_ he thought. Staring into his hands, he wondered when he'd started to feel so tired and so… old.

Sara watched him with an ache for the part she'd played in driving this man down the route he'd taken. The fact that he simply looked ready to break may have been lost on the others, but not on her. She'd seen him at his best and his worst, yet she'd never seen his eyes so hazed or his shoulders so slumped. Leaning into him a little from where she perched so very close, she ran her hand up Grissom's neck and murmured, "Don't do this anymore, Gil. Let the rest of us take the weight."

In one moment, his life slammed down in front of him, and all he could do was nod. He'd been so close to simply giving in over the last month, he knew Jim was worried about him. With every step and every piece of evidence collected, Jim was on-hand, offering Grissom his assistance.

"Let me tell the next part," Brass murmured. "But, we'll skip the meeting, except to say it's sometimes fortuitous that Doc Robbins has been around for so long. When he called in to check on Warrick after the incident in ICU, Robbins found out the surgeon was a good friend of his."

"Best friend," Robbins interjected. "Steve's actually my best friend, although I could never talk him into working with the dead. He prefers them breathing."

"Yeah, well, that's when this team – me, Ecklie, Robbins, and Grissom – stepped in and faked Warrick's death," Brass continued.

"It was a close one, though," Robbins said. Looking directly at Warrick, he stated, "You really did die on the table during surgery." The older, often rough coroner said, "It wasn't hard to make everyone believe you were dead, or to arrange temporary care in the hospital."

"Figuring out where to put him for the long term turned out to be the problem," Ecklie stated, frowning slightly at the memory of the discussion that had turned into a heated debate of frustration and futility.

Sara, with her hand still on his back, smiled at her lover, and rubbed small circles of comfort, when she said, "I think this might be my part to tell."

"And mine," Brass said, earning a glare from Grissom. "Look, Gil. It worked out fine." Looking around the room and back to his friend, he said, "I'll start."

**X X X**

Brass slammed his coffee cup down on the counter in Grissom's kitchen, garnering everyone's attention. Robbins, feeling his presence was no longer needed, had left hours ago, drooping with fatigue. So the detective stood in front of the CSI supervisor and assistant lab director, getting tired of finding and rejecting possible permanent location for Warrick to recuperate. "We've eliminated every option we've come up with for one reason or another."

"And I'm out of ideas," Ecklie said, blowing out a weary breath. He hadn't eaten and was about to suggest a meal, but one look at Grissom's face had him rethinking that plan.

Picking up his cup and moving to the stainless sink, Brass carefully laid it on the bottom and tried to act casual when he said, "There's one possibility we haven't discussed, Gil." He waited a heartbeat before turning to the two other men in the room and saying, "Sara. We can send Warrick to Sara."

No one noticed when Brass casually pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hit a number he'd tracked down months before, before laying the device on the kitchen counter nearby.

**X X X**

"Suffice it to say, the volume in Grissom's home increased," Brass sardonically stated, trying to lighten his friend's morose mood. During the short telling, he'd watched Grissom become more and more withdrawn. "Hey Gil, you might want to keep in mind that it worked," Brass said. "Warrick did well with Sara… the short term memory loss came back and he healed."

"It should've never come to that, and I still don't appreciate you putting Sara on speakerphone without my knowing," Grissom stated. "If I didn't want Nick, Greg, or Catherine in danger, then why the _hell_ would I want Sara looking over her shoulder all the time?"

Holding up a hand in defeat, Brass added, "Gil, it's an old argument. The fact is there wasn't much choice. Let's not rehash."

Blowing out a breath, Grissom gave a sharp nod and said, "Fine."

It was Sara who broke the strain when she said, "I'm really glad you included Nick and Greg in your list, Gil. Had it just been the womenfolk, you would've had a couple of us poor, helpless females showing you _precisely_ what we're capable of." She leaned close and loudly whispered, "You wouldn't have liked it."

Her words so close to his neck, the knowing she was finally safe had his tense, aching back relaxing painfully and he grinned at her, before he swung his head and said, "Yeah. Let's not rehash this," to Brass.

"I think the next part might be mine," Sara said, giving Grissom a quick grin before turning back to the rest of the room. "Suffice it to say, I was a little surprised when Jim's ID came up on my phone."

**X X X**

Sara looked around the room and wondered momentarily if she was forgetting something. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she'd arrived in San Francisco with nothing but her purse, but along the way she'd picked up items here and there, and found herself stuffing more and more souvenirs into her suitcases for the guys and Catherine. Snapping the last suitcase shut, she glanced around and noted that the only thing left unpacked was her clothes for the next few days. Everything was ready to ship when Grissom arrived. _He's going to be surprised_, she thought to herself, noting the amount of _stuff_ she'd picked up along the way. _I can't believe I'm going home._

Sitting on the bed in the room she rented, she pulled the top off a box and retrieved a file from inside. Flipping through it, she realized she'd already committed it to memory – from the abuse to her father's death. If there was something Sara knew, it was evidence.

The shrill ringing of her phone had Sara jumping, feeling slightly startled. Laughing, she picked it up anticipating Grissom's call, and felt suddenly numb. The caller ID showed BRASS. _I love you. Be safe. I love you. Be safe,_ repeated in her mind as she hit talk.

Hearing Grissom immediately had the panic in her chest dissolving and her heartbeat returning to normal as he said, "For God's sake Jim, why? Explain that to me, huh? Why would I put Sara into the middle of it?"

Their voices were tinny, but she could have sworn it was Ecklie who replied, "Because we're out of options. We're talking about Warrick's life here." She pulled a sharp intake of breath when he continued, "He's barely hanging on by a threat. We'll be lucky if that thread doesn't snap sometime during the night and we lose him."

"A shot through the neck and another through the chest," Brass stated, his voice clear, indicating he probably held the phone somewhere close by.

She felt stunned, anguished, and every emotion in between. Warrick. Hurt. Worse – almost dead. Sinking to the edge of the bed, her hand trembled while she held the phone and the bright lights of the room dimmed in her vision.

"So what do you want to do?" Brass asked. "We need an idea pretty damn quick."

Sara listened to silence pervade, until she heard a very quiet, "It's the best option, Gil. We'll make sure she's safe."

Jim's voice came through loud in clear at that point, when he said, "Sara? Are you up for playing nursemaid?"

She had to choke back the lump in her throat before replying, "I won't wear the uniform."

The fury was evident in Grissom's growling, "Jim, what did you do?" More calmly, he asked, "Sara? Honey? We'll find something else. We'll figure out…"

"Gil," she interrupted. "This way will work. Take the phone off speaker. I want to talk to you."

It took a few clicks through the receiver and the sound of Grissom walking up the stairs from the kitchen to sit on the couch before he spoke. "Sara," he breathed out, unsure how to explain the insanity of the past few days. "Warrick…"

"I know. I heard. You need to fill me in a little more, though, okay?"

He did just that, explaining about Warrick being set up for murder, breakfast at Frank's, Nick finding Warrick…

"You think it's cops," she extrapolated from his factual recount of events. "I would, too."

Silence reigned between them for a couple of minutes, until she said, "Sweetheart, I want you to answer a question for me. And don't freak out just because I'm bringing the subject up." Drawing in a breath, she asked, "What was the hardest part of locating Natalie Davis?"

The mention of the miniature killer had Grissom stomach clenching as it always did. He removed his glasses, tossing them on the coffee table in front of him. Rubbing his eyes, he replied, "Judges don't like giving out foster child information, so we had to go in with some pretty damn good proof and a name to get anything on any of Ernie Dell's fosters."

"Right," she replied. "Now think about it. Mike's in the Navy. If we couldn't find a serial killer because she was a foster child, how do you expect anyone to find me at my foster brother's beach house in southern California? It's not even his main residence."

"Sara, the fewer the people…"

"Don't worry about it, Gil. I trust Mike. He'll need to know, but there's no reason to bring his wife or kids into it. No one will ever find us," Sara said, trying to sound confident, even though her nerves hummed and goose bumps raised on her skin.

The tension of the last hours was simply too much and her arguments too reasonable to do much more than give in, and he felt fatigue seep into every bone. "Okay," he quietly said. "We'll figure out on our end how we manage the transfer."

Brass and Ecklie listened to Grissom's half of the conversation, both giving sighs of relief at the CSI's acquiescence. However, his next statements brought a hell of a lot of clarity to some of Grissom's arguments.

"I miss you," he murmured. Resigned, Grissom added, "So much for coming home, hon. I know you're eager to leave it all behind you, so I need to know you're going to be okay out there."

"It'll help to get away from the Bay Area," Sara replied. "If I can't be in Vegas, the beach house is a good alternative. Just do me a favor?"

"Anything."

"If it's possible… come see me. You have no idea how much I just need to see and touch you," she said, hoping she didn't come across as eager as she felt.

"I'll do what I can," he replied. "Besides, you'll be seeing me soon anyway. I assume you're coming home for Warrick's funeral."

Her quick intake of breath had him quickly adding, "He's alive, but if we fake his death…"

"You'll need a funeral," Sara finished for him. "I love you, Gil."

Running his hand over his face, Grissom felt the adrenaline that had kept him going wane to nothing, and along with the aches he was having a difficult time keeping himself from crumpling. "I love you too," he said.

Standing on the stairs, Brass winced and shifted uncomfortably, making the step squeak a little. It was pretty obvious when Grissom sat up straight that the CSI hadn't realized he had an audience, and Brass's wince became more painful.

"I'll call again soon," Grissom murmured. Pressing the End button on Brass's cell phone, he reached his arm back without ever turning his body.

Brass grabbed his phone from Grissom's outstretched hand and tentatively said, "So. Sara was coming home."

"'Was' being the operative word. She's all for sending Warrick to her and has a plan of her own. Only the three of us and Al will have a clue where she and Warrick are staying," Grissom stated. "No one is to know." Turning, he faced Ecklie and Brass. Understood?"

**X X X**

Warrick gave Sara an accusing look as he continued to lean forward on the couch, using his hands to say, "You were going home? You never told me."

"Look, what would it have mattered if I'd told you or not?" she replied. Her voice softened when she said, "Your _life_ was more important."

"The funeral was an interesting affair," Ecklie interjected, trying to change the subject. He grimaced when he continued, "You have no idea how paranoid I was that someone was going to find out just how much gel I'd removed from the lab to create the dummy we buried. Then there was Warrick," and the assistant lab director gave a nod in his direction. "You weren't doing great in the private facility Al had arranged, but had healed enough to transport."

"You know, I'd never driven a U-Haul truck before, let alone one equipped with a massive amount of working medical equipment and a private nurse," Sara said lightly. "Sorry about the rough ride, Rick. At least I only bounced you off the gurney twice. It could've been worse."


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death (Chapter 5)  
Rating:** Teen (expecting this to change to M in a couple of chapters)  
**Author:** CSIGeekFan  
**Beta:** As usual, seattlecsifan has loaned me her wonderful editing skills. Any errors found are mine.  
**Disclaimer:** I would like to thank the Academy for this wonderful… crap, wrong pre-canned speech. Here's the right one – I don't own CSI. I'm just borrowing the characters.  
**Summary:** He never claimed to be an expert on human interaction, but what lay most painfully obvious in front of him was a group of very tired, very anguished people. _They haven't been right in a long time,_ he thought, as he leaned back and reached over for his crutch.

**X X X**

"I drove straight to Mike's house," Sara stated, leaning back. "Before long, we had Warrick settled in and on his way to healing."

"So the nurse worked out?" Robbins asked.

"Yes. Amanda was great with Warrick through recovery and rehab," she said and then grinned when Warrick threw up his hands and gave her a thunderous look. "Give me a break," she added. "_You're_ the one that kept telling her the physical therapy was a waste of your time."

"They kept you company," Grissom murmured to Sara, rubbing his burning eyes as he tilted his head to look at Sara. "And you were there for Warrick." Shutting his eyes tight, Grissom tried to squeeze out some moisture from his tear ducts, and figured he must've gone dry, because everything was looking a little blurry, his eyes felt like sandpaper, and he was having a hell of a time keeping them open.

The room fell quiet, until Greg loudly yawned and sheepishly said, "Sorry. It's been a long few days."

Al Robbins had spent the last several minutes observing the room, because that's what he did best. Through observing bodies – alive and dead – a lot of useful information could be gleaned. He never claimed to be an expert on human interaction, but what lay most painfully obvious in front of him was a group of very tired, very anguished people. _They haven't been right in a long time,_ he thought, as he leaned back and reached over for his crutch.

Robbins' chair creaked and Grissom gave the coroner a questioning look.

"It's late, and it's been a hell of a forty eight hours, Gil," Robbins stated, making his way to the door. Turning to look at the occupants, he said, "Everyone could use a little sleep. Whether or not any of you choose to leave off until later is up to you. I, on the other hand, am going home." With no further ado, he left the others sitting there.

"He's right," Catherine interjected. "I think we all need sleep."

"I agree," Sara said, getting a good look at Warrick's face. While he was well on the road to recovery, the massive amount of trauma had taken a significant toll. He tired easily, and their day had begun early with Grissom's short call: _"Sara, we got McKeen. We'll be waiting for you."_

"So, Sara," Greg said, stretching his legs out in front of him, "I assume that you had to wait until the undersheriff was in custody before you came home. If that's the case, then you just got home today." _Sometimes the people closest are the biggest idiots_, Greg mused, hoping his words would sink in with somebody besides Sara, who was trying to keep a straight face and not doing the best job. _sigh I'm going to have to spell it out,_ he thought. "Since you just got home today and Gris has been with _us_ all day, you've barely had any time alone."

At this point, Sara figured it was easiest to roll her eyes at the young CSI. She opened her mouth to make a smart-ass retort at her friend, but was interrupted by Grissom.

"You know, Greg, go home," Grissom said. He'd given up any hope in having his eyes do anything besides burn and so sat back in his chair, trying to get a couple of knotted muscles that formed a constant sharp pain near his shoulder blades to ease at least a fraction. He hurt and wanted nothing more than to loosen the stabbing pain in his back to the preferable fiery ache. "Everyone. Go home," he added, looking around.

"Warrick," Nick said sitting up. "Greg's got a point. Come on home with me, man. I've got clothes and a spare room."

For a second, Warrick didn't know whether Nick was serious or not when the Texan drawled, "I might be able to find you a cowboy hat, too."

Catherine's laughter joined with Nick's as well as Greg's, and pretty soon Grissom was given a view he never thought he'd see again, forcing an ache to well in his chest. His CSIs walked out the door together, laughing and joking.

Ecklie's gaze followed Grissom's and he murmured, "It's good to see. Give me a call and let me know when we're going to go over the rest of it." With that statement, the assistant lab director headed in the direction of his own office. Work still needed to be done.

Brass sat alone in a chair on one side of the room, watching Grissom and Sara under hooded eyes. Anyone who had met Grissom a couple of years ago – before the Miniature Killer, before the agony of having his and Sara's privacy ripped away – would have seen him as enthusiastic, in love with science, and if they had ever looked at Grissom as he had looked at Sara, they would have seen how he felt about her. A year ago, the loneliness was there, but only those who knew him well could see it buried deep. But lately… it was so very evident and plain to anyone giving even a glance. In the past few months, anyone meeting him saw a man pushed to the edge. Brass wondered just how close to the edge Grissom stood.

Grissom's eyes had closed the minute Ecklie left the room, and Sara's hands began to knead at his shoulder blades, squeezing away the ache and pushing painfully into the knotted muscles for relief. The feel of her hands through his shirt and her breath on his neck as she tilted her head and laid it on his shoulder felt better than any balm.

She was finally home.

Since his chair was going to squeak anyway, Brass figured he might as well remind them they weren't alone and gave a muffled cough into his hand. When Sara and Grissom raised their heads, he stared at them and smiled. "Go home. Tomorrow's soon enough to finish this."

"You never took our statements," Sara said.

The detective's smile widened when he said, "What do you think we were all doing here?" As he stepped toward the door, he didn't bother turning back, but loudly said, "Call and tell me when and where, but don't rush." Stopping in the door, he spun on his heel and smiled wide. "No one's going anywhere."

She laid her head back on her lover's shoulder, aware of tears born of desperation threatening to spill over. It had been so long since she'd smelled his aftershave or ran a hand over his cheek, the fact she could do so now overwhelmed her.

"Take me home," she whispered, and he sighed.

He still felt coiled, like a python, but the pressure in his head and chest didn't seem as intense for the moment, and he let his head tilt onto hers for a time. Eventually, she shifted, standing away from him, her hand outstretched, and he felt gratitude in the feel of her palm in his.

They stared at each other, until she smiled and again said, "Take me home."

**X X X**

As the reunited lovers returned to their home for a moment of peace and solitude, the rest of the crew sat in Nick's living room. Warrick insisted he wasn't so much tired as just physically worn, and if he could just sit back and relax he'd be fine. Nick, Greg, and Catherine were just too grateful their friend was alive and too wound up from all that had happened to want to head toward their own rest.

"So you stayed with Sara, huh?" Greg asked.

On the drive home, Nick had been surprised when Warrick pulled out a notepad and wrote down anything he had to say. Even the simplest of sign language was beyond the Texan's skill.

Pulling out his notepad once again, Warrick replied to Greg's question. "Yes."

"What's it like living with her?" Greg asked, having always wondered what it would be like to live with someone as intense as Sara.

"Interesting. Fun. Heartbreaking."

"Heartbreaking?" Nick quietly asked.

"It's not my place to tell," Warrick wrote. "You'll know some of it eventually, but why she left and where she went is her story to tell."

Catherine, who'd been perhaps the most curious of the entire group after Sara's abrupt departure, wanted to push but didn't see the point.

Instead, she said, "Grissom took a couple of weeks off awhile back. Was he there?"

Warrick nodded, and Catherine leaned back in the thick arm chair in Nick's living room.

"Well, at least they got to see each other at some point besides just your funeral," Catherine said. Smiling a little, she moved her hair behind her ears and added, "I still have a hard time seeing them together, but… there's a history there."

The whistling sound started off in a medium-high pitch range, and slowly dropped over the course of seconds, while everyone looked at the man making the noise. Picking up a pen and paper, he wrote furiously, ripped out a page, and handed it to Nick.

Warrick had written, "If you ever really see them together, the connection is hard to miss. Just don't ever make the mistake of sneaking home early and trying to hide in fear of a tongue lashing because you don't want to do your physical therapy."

"Why?" Greg asked.

Warrick wrote a quick note: "Don't let them know I told you, but..." Grabbing his pad, he started writing, ripping out page after page, as he told his story.

**X X X**

Warrick Brown hated the world, and he was positive it was out to get him, as was the pretty nurse that wasn't so pretty when she got that pinched look on her face. Then she was damn stubborn.

He was supposed to stroll down to the beach a few blocks away and maybe play in the sand. The activity once there was up to him, but Amanda had insisted he spend some time outside, as he'd been cooped up for so long. Each day, she'd extended the amount of time he was to be enjoying fresh air and sunshine, but he didn't feel like obliging that day. Instead, he wanted to go home, sneak into his bedroom, and take a nap before catching whatever football game was on television.

Not only had the pity party taken over in his head, but he was so distracted he didn't even notice the rental car on the street as he made his way around the side of the yard toward the back door. Since Sara preferred to read in the living room, his best bet for sneaking in was going through the kitchen door and then down the side hall away from where she would be sitting near the gauzy curtained bay window and on to his bedroom.

Getting in was easy, but he stopped cold at the sound of voices coming from the living room. He couldn't make out anything other than gender from the low tones, and he slid along the walls sticking to the shadows, until he could peer inside.

They were on the other side of the room, and Warrick was out of their line of sight. His excuse for getting out of physio was right on the tip of his tongue, but he stopped himself before he could walk into the room. The self-pity faded away, as he watched them cling to each other, their eyes never straying beyond the other's face.

Grissom finally closed his eyes as his head lowered and he said, "I've missed you," before his lips found hers. Energy burst through the room as they kissed, moaning into each others lips.

"Warrick won't be back for over an hour," Sara said, and Grissom's head dipped to kiss her chin and then her throat.

"Thank God," he replied.

From where he stood in the shadows, Warrick saw Grissom's hand tremble when he reached out to unbutton Sara's shirt. The older man shook so bad, Sara finally covered his hand with hers, and slipped the small ivory disks through their holes, shucking her shirt onto the floor, before slowly unbuttoning his.

When Grissom's shirt was pulled free, Warrick watched Sara step into the older man's embrace, rubbing her cheek across his neck and down to rest it on his bare shoulder. After awhile, Sara said, "I love you," and Grissom met her halfway, lips merging, fusing, breaking apart repeatedly.

Feeling like a voyeur, and not wanting to intrude on something so… stunningly intimate, Warrick stepped back quietly, making sure to step over that spot on the floor he knew always squeaked. Silently, he slid back out the door through the kitchen.

He built a sandcastle at the beach.

**X X X**

"Well…" was all Catherine could manage.

Warrick felt like a slight flush creep up his neck at recounting the memory, and he wrote, "Like I said – the connection is obvious."

Greg, on the other hand, grinned wildly and held his hand out to Nick. "Pay up."

Nick grunted, opened his wallet and handed the younger CSI a twenty.

When Catherine and Warrick stared at him, Greg just shrugged and said, "Remember after we found Sara? It was before she went to work Swing Shift." He tucked the money into his wallet. "I bet Nick they were hot together."


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death (Chapter 6)  
Rating:** M  
**Author:** CSIGeekFan  
**Beta:** Thank you to my always wonderful beta **Seattlecsifan** for keeping me straight and consistent. Any mistakes are mine because I dinked with it after she fixed my screw-ups.  
**Pairings:** Grissom/Sara, Team, Warrick  
**Words:** 3100 (approximately)  
**Disclaimer:** Once upon a time there was a little show called CSI that grew up to be a big show with many lawyers. I explained to those lawyers that I don't own the show and am just playing with the characters, so they decided _not_ to sue me over this story. The End.

**X X X**

He hadn't slept so well in months, he mused, stretched out languidly on his back. Anxiety over the investigation and the constant worry over her had caused many nights with his mind moving so fast, sleep eluded him.

At that moment, though, the reason for his peaceful sleep had her arm flung over his stomach while her cheek rested in the crook of his arm, and he couldn't help but smile down at the woman curled into his side. The blankets and sheets had tangled around her in that way that occasionally irritated him, because she'd always manage to tangle them around him, as well. It was a relief to have the blankets thrown to the end of the bed, wrapped around their feet. He'd learned to love her tangled messes.

Glancing at the clock, Grissom frowned, surprised to find he'd slept for nearly sixteen hours. By his calculations, he'd just done something he would normally reprimand or even fire one of his employees for – he slept through his shift; and worse, he didn't call in.

"You're awake," Sara mumbled without opening her eyes, moving her hand up his warm chest to rest on his shoulder, where she proceeded to draw little circles on his skin, smiling at the small shiver before he wrapped the arm on which she lay around her tight, drawing her closer.

"You're still asleep after sixteen hours," he lazily retorted, his voice giving evidence to his semi-groggy state.

She replied with a snorting laugh and said, "I was up for a few hours earlier, playing with Hank. Plus, it's your fault and you know it." Opening her eyes, she had to laugh at the _who me_ look he sported. Tilting her chin down, Sara kissed his chest, and said, "It's good to be home, and particularly good to be _welcomed_ home." As she rubbed at his shoulder, though, she resignedly said, "But we should get up. There's a lot more of our statements to go over." She felt his response, with the heavy rise and fall of his upper body, as he sighed.

"You're right," Grissom replied. "However, before we do that, I think we should have breakfast… or rather dinner."

"That would be nice," she murmured, snuggling a little more into his warmth, and relishing the simple comfort of lolling in bed together. It felt so blessedly wonderful to lay next to him, as he radiated heat like a furnace. Food was good, but this… this was so much better.

However, the dread of continuing the statements – of reliving the last six months – nagged at the back of her mind, and she wanted to get it over. "Let's take Hank for a walk first," she said.

For a moment longer they lay still and comfortable, working to find the motivation needed to leave the haven of their home and the peace of their privacy. As one, they got out of bed and dressed for the day. The walk with Hank was leisurely, the dog plodding along happily, while the couple strolled in the bright, cool winter day, talking in low tones about everything and nothing at the same time, just happy to _have_ time.

Eventually, they settled into a booth at Sara's favorite vegetarian restaurant off the strip, and she watched fatigue slide away as they talked and laughed through the meal.

"I've missed this," Grissom said, using his fork to wave between the two of them.

The picture of wide-eyed innocence, Sara asked, "The eggplant parmigiana?"

"Cute," he smirked. "I mean just… I don't know… talking to you, I guess." Popping a bite of the marinara and cheese covered eggplant into his mouth, he spoke around it. "I missed this, too, though."

Taking their time, they bantered, sometimes talking of memories, but more often than not just letting time pass, as he eased into a life he'd lived well and loved a great deal. The way they spoke to each other, the concessions they made like any couple, came back as if she'd never left, and Grissom found himself laughing at bad jokes. Sara found herself laughing at his even worse puns.

Yet, heading toward the lab, she could feel tension start emanating from him, and she wished more than anything time could be reversed and she could have a chance to fix so many things before they ever happened. Reaching over, she grasped his hand and squeezed as he drove.

The entire trip to his office, she couldn't shake the feeling, though… that she had better have enough strength for both of them to get through the tangled web of chaos and pain that had been woven over the past months. She only had to look in his eyes to see he was drowning in exhaustion.

**X X X**

A couple of hours before Graveyard shift was scheduled to start, Grissom sat behind his desk, rifling through paperwork, while Sara read through the latest forensic journals piling up. Everyone had been called and would be arriving anytime, but he wanted to try and get at least a little caught up on a few things that had slipped over the last week.

The last week. The worst week. The week he never wanted to think about again, but knew that recounting it would be inevitable.

When Sara heard the quiet sigh pass his lips, she looked up in time to see him turn in his chair and stare off to the side of the room where he'd laid out the evidence in the confines of his office. Some of that evidence still lay on the racks.

He didn't hear Sara get out of her chair and come up behind him, but the feel of her hands on his stiff neck broke his focus, as her slim hands slipped under the collar of his cotton shirt. Brass had accused him of getting obsessive with that evidence, and of distancing himself from the team. _Hell, Brass accused me of a lot of things, and he was probably right._

Grissom didn't have a chance to continue that train of thought; for when they heard a resounding thump on the door frame, he and Sara turned to find Catherine walking in… with a strange look on her face. The blonde CSI was staring at them, and Sara raised her brow.

"You missed work," Catherine murmured, noting the pallor and shadows had lessened in Grissom's face. "It was fine, but I was surprised to not hear from you."

"I was entitled to a little sleep, Catherine. I haven't taken a day off in almost a year," he replied, his voice and posture becoming defensive. Just as quickly, he let out a long breath and admitted, "I should have called in, though."

"Grissom," Catherine said, taking her spot at the end of the couch, where she had a clear view of Grissom and Sara, "it's all right. I was worried, but figured if something was wrong we would have heard from Sara." Giving a brief smile, she dropped the subject. Her message was clear – _enough said._

Pulling out a file ready to be dropped on Grissom's desk from the last shift's B&E, Catherine opened it to give it another look before putting it in the supervisor's In box. A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she watched Sara absently hand something to Grissom, and Grissom reach out to accept it – neither even looking in the others' direction.

Then Warrick's words hit her, and Catherine _really_ looked at the couple. Sara was sitting in a chair next to Grissom, engrossed in an article, while Grissom frowned and continued to sign off on reports. The connection was obvious… it always had been. Glances, concern, arguments, quiet discussion, lingering touches. They had always been there, but they'd morphed into something Catherine hadn't really recognized at the time. Something basic had shifted. Contentment and smiling had become part of the norm, as well. It had happened so subtly, no one seemed to recognize the change.

Catherine watched Grissom's hand go up to the back of his neck. Without missing a beat, Sara's hand covered his, until his slipped away and he tilted his head. Thirty seconds ticked by when he let out a sigh, and Catherine had to smile herself. She was still curious as to how long they'd _really_ been together, and was about to ask that question when she glanced up to find 'the boys' standing in the doorway.

Apparently, they'd been watching Grissom and Sara as well, because Nick's eyes flicked over to Catherine's and he gave a rueful shake of his head, while Warrick handed him a note saying, "I told you so."

Greg simply grinned broadly. He'd known about them for years, but would never tell the others that. One thing about having once been her pursuer (for about a week) and then her flirty friend… he watched her more than most. It hadn't taken him long to figure out where Sara's eyes always turned when she thought no one was watching. They had since the day she moved to Vegas.

Brass and Ecklie walked in talking in low tones, stopping in the doorway to look around at the occupants. It always amazed Brass how people tended to assign themselves seats in every setting, as if they were in a classroom. Everyone sat in the same place as the day before. Catherine, Warrick, and Nick (in that order) on the couch. Greg in a chair next to Nick. Grissom behind his desk, with Sara next to him, within reach. Across from Grissom and Sara, Ecklie took his seat, while Brass chuckled and took his.

Robbins' part was done, and unlike the others, he had no desire to revisit the case. Instead, he'd opted to complete the paperwork he would need to present to the A.M.A. review board – because he hadn't made the decision to fake Warrick's death lightly. Whether his actions had proved right or not, Al Robbins would eventually have to answer for forging a death certificate.

As a matter-of-fact, Al's last words to Brass before leaving the lab after shift the previous night had been, "You know, I could've retired five years ago." Brass had laughed, though, when the coroner added, "I can always go back to rockin' the house with my band." While the seasoned detective wiped away tears of laughter, Robbins had raised his crutch and hoisted it in the air in a form of salute, before heading out.

The quiet room was filled with a taut silence, as the people within eyed each other, wondering whose part should be next. Ecklie was the one to finally speak by interjecting, "A.D.A. Kline's is going to offer life without parole."

"You've talked to her then? Told her everything?" Grissom asked.

Brass looked at Ecklie and back to Grissom before giving his friend a smile and saying, "We told her what's relevant."

Looking at Warrick, Brass amended his statement a little. "Of course, a lot of it depends on how you feel about it, Rick. We've got him on three counts of first degree murder for Pritchard, Harper, and Gedda, as well as an attempted murder charge for you."

Warrick's response was easy to read. The man bowed his head, and rubbed his hands over his face before rapidly signing something.

Grissom nodded sharply, turned to Ecklie, and said, "Just get it done. He wants this over."

While Ecklie excused himself to call Kline, Catherine said, "Before we start, I have a question to ask. It's about something Sara talked about." Looking at the brunette in question, she asked, "How long were you in foster care?"

Sara shrugged her shoulder as if to say 'no big deal' and replied, "A few years."

Catherine sat quietly, watching and wondering at Sara's wording. A few years could mean two or ten, and she wondered if the younger woman even realized her hands had clenched or that Grissom had begun to frown. Eventually, the senior CSI gave a sober nod, accepting the answer; she would give it time, because Catherine had a feeling everyone, except maybe Grissom, was in for a few revelations.

Clearing his throat, Brass broke the tension of the room, and said, "Okay, I think maybe I'd better tell what happened next." Looking at Grissom, he addressed the CSI when he added, "You might remember this. It was the morning Conrad got the bright idea to start naming the phases of the investigation, and you tried to kill him."

"I didn't try to kill him," Grissom calmly replied, folding his hands on the desk in front of him. "I was simply explaining the difference between an investigation…"

"And your fist," Ecklie snorted, entering Grissom's office once again and taking his seat. He then smiled, and said, "I'm just happy you punch like a girl. If it had been Sidle, I would've probably been flat on my ass." He looked around the room at the raised eyebrows and quizzical looks, and then settled on Grissom. "Maybe we'd better just skip that part."

"I don't know, I think you just explained it quite well," Brass said, humor ringing through his voice. He chuckled when he said, "Maybe you're right." Then Brass pulled up the memories of what happened next, and while watching two overly tired science geeks had been funny, the next part hadn't been.

The sudden sobering of Brass's face and demeanor had a chilling effect on everyone in the room. Sara had an inkling of what had happened, because she'd insisted upon regular updates, but she had never heard the details. Staring at Brass, she could have sworn the temperature dropped ten degrees in the room as goose bumps rose on her arms.

"This is my part to tell," Brass stated in a low, monotone voice. "It happened the night after the funeral."

**X X X**

"Fuck it all," Brass grumbled, hitting a particularly hard rut, and hearing a resulting scrape against the underbelly of the car. Coming to a stop on the packed dirt road, he flicked on the interior light of his gray piece of crap, police issue vehicle and checked his notes again. Unfortunately in the pitch black night outside, he couldn't make out much, and hoped yet again he was headed in the right direction.

Somewhere north of Highway 167 was the decimated body of a man, and a park ranger babysitting a couple of stoned teenagers. Brass chuckled as he switched off the light inside his car and continued on the dirt path. According to the directions provided, he was headed the right way.

"Damn it," he growled, jolting over another deep rut.

That's about the time he saw the headlights being muted by the inky night about half a mile off. Breathing out a sigh, he continued on, thankful he wasn't going to have to turn back and figure out just how he'd gotten himself so ass-backward in finding the scene. Because he'd just about convinced himself someone was playing a sick joke on him.

The last piece of road suddenly smoothed, providing an easier ride, and Brass was relieved to reach the destination. Pulling to a stop fifteen feet behind a park-issue SUV, Brass made his way toward the ranger standing at the rear of the vehicle.

Slowly exiting his car, Brass pulled on his suit jacket to ward against the desert night and took in the three people in front of him. The young ranger reminded Brass of a Marine, tough and stern, while the couple holding hands and sitting on the bumper behind him looked like kids about to barf.

As Brass approached, he introduced himself. "Jim Brass, LVPD. You have something for me?"

"Tom Henton, park ranger here at Lake Mead," the ranger replied, shaking Brass's hand. "And yeah. I've got something for you."

With a nod toward the teenagers sitting on the bumper of Henton's SUV, Brass asked, "What have they told you so far?"

Henton waved his hand toward the front of the vehicle, in the general direction of the body, and left the young, dazed couple sitting on the back bumper. On the way, Henton said, "Alice Sparks, sixteen, and Jimmy Miller, seventeen. Mom and dad think they're spending the weekend with their best friends. Best friends are covering for them, while they have a wild weekend of camping. You know… typical teenage crap. They were out on a joyride off road, stopped right over there." Henton used his hand to indicate a Jeep Cherokee about fifty feet away. "They were looking for an area not covered in thistle or brush to finish smoking their joints and have sex."

Coming to a stop, Henton finished, "And this is what they found."

"Christ almighty," Brass mumbled. The body lay with its feet toward the headlights, only partially illuminating the victim, everything above the torso obscured by the dwindling light. Pulling a penlight from his jacket, Brass crouched down and flashed the thin stream of light over the shadowed areas the body, starting at the mangled foot.

"I should probably mention when they found him, a couple of coyotes were having a feast. They ran off pretty quick, though," Henton commented.

"With a leg, apparently," Brass stated, looking up at the ranger and using his hand to indicate the missing appendage.

Bit by bit, Brass raised the light over the body, noting the chewed-on hands near the victim's hips. However, the damage seemed to stop there. The arms themselves had a couple of marks, but the farther up the torso the less damage. While the park ranger watched, Brass continued his perusal, taking in the black slacks and black shirt, covered by a black leather jacket. Then it he passed the light over the head.

Brass ran a hand over his face, pinched his nose, and quietly muttered a mild profanity under his breath. His night had just gotten a hell of a lot longer. Looking up at Henton, he said, "Do me a favor. We've got a BOLO out on this guy. Call it in and let 'em know I've got Officer Daniel Pritchard." Shifting his stance, he began to run his light over the body once again… and saw it.

"Oh, shit."


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death (Chapter 7)  
Rating:** M  
**Author:** CSIGeekFan  
**Beta:** Thank you to my always wonderful beta **Seattlecsifan** for keeping me straight and consistent. Any mistakes are mine because I dinked with it after she fixed my screw-ups.  
**Pairings:** Grissom/Sara, Team, Warrick  
**Words:** 2,250 (approximately)  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own CSI. I don't _want to_ own CSI. But, as a huge fan... can I just borrow Grissom for a couple of days? I'll make it easy. He doesn't even need to pack a bag. Just send him over as he is.

**X X X**

"I was beginning to dread middle of the night calls," Ecklie absently stated to the room in general

"When I saw the holes through Pritchard's neck and chest… I didn't know whether to be pissed off that the prick was possibly killed by the same person, or thrilled that he'd been found," Brass stated.

Greg was mortified when the laughing, "Hah!" escaped his mouth at the end of Brass's statement, and the seasoned detective raised a brow and stared down the young CSI. "I remember vividly what you said," Greg mumbled, breaking eye contact with Brass.

After clearing his throat and shifting in obvious discomfort, Greg switched directions and said, "Then Grissom called in Ecklie." Turning his head toward Grissom, Greg contemplated his boss for a minute before stating, "You didn't say much. Even with Brass wanting answers that instant, you just knelt over the body and started looking, unless you were telling me to do something."

"I didn't want you involved," Grissom said, staring at Greg. "I didn't want anyone involved, but you were with me when the call came in. I couldn't find a way to justify taking this on my own, without outright handing it over to Day shift. Letting Days handle Warrick's case made sense – he was one of ours; but everyone would expect us to handle Pritchard, and I just didn't know who was involved."

"I know," Greg replied, with a subtle smile. "I figured a lot of it out that night."

When Grissom's brows shot up, Greg's shrugged and added, "I saw a few things that made me suspicious… evidence that was handed to Ecklie under the table."

Grissom and Ecklie eyed each other uncomfortably, squirming a little at the break in protocol that had occurred… more than once. Neither had felt good about the subtle misinformation they'd let filter to the team.

"You know, it wasn't long after that I started dreading middle of the night calls," Ecklie stated, while he continued to tap a pen against his clipboard, releasing pent-up nervous energy. "As it was, I spent a hell of a lot of time after leaving here researching admissibility of evidence, protocol in evidence handling, and anything else I could to make sure we weren't completely screwing ourselves with the way we were handling things."

"That would explain why you looked like hell and were an hour late getting to the crime scene," Grissom murmured. When Ecklie simply stared at him, Grissom shrugged and said, "I was getting pissed. _You_ try keeping Greg off a scene he's supposed to be working, and then _not_ get caught pulling evidence off a body."

"Or worse… recorded," Greg said, capturing everyone's attention. "Not to worry. When I realized what was on the camera, it accidentally got deleted."

If nothing else, Greg had everyone's full attention.

"One thing about writing a book on mob bosses is I spent a lot of time studying corruption in Vegas; corruption means politicians and cops," Greg said. He stared for a moment at Grissom, watching the blue in his supervisor's eyes turn dark when he said, "I had an idea what was up, and I watched. I watched really close."

**X X X**

Greg was tired and aching with grief. He'd considered calling in sick that night, but knew he couldn't. Warrick's funeral had been that morning, and as much as he hurt, the rest of the team hurt just as bad and they'd all showed up for shift.

It was the fact he was ten minutes late clocking in that landed Greg in the Denali with Grissom, their teeth getting jarred from their heads as they bounced over the rutted road. While Greg's blood had begun pumping hard and fast when Grissom informed him of the vic, he dreaded having to spend the drive alone with his supervisor in the vehicle.

Since Warrick's death, Grissom had been more withdrawn than usual, and his rigid movement simply screamed _leave smiles and bullshit at home_. For someone with Greg's temperament, it was never easy to work with someone unwilling to at least relieve the stress of a case with some sense of humor.

Finally slowing to a stop next to Brass's vehicle, Greg and Grissom emerged, silently unpacking their gear and making their way past the park ranger speaking in low tones to a couple of teenagers behind the park-issue SUV. Brass met the CSIs halfway.

Standing in front of the vehicle, Grissom stared at the body, while Greg dropped his kit on the dusty ground.

"What do we know about him?" Grissom asked.

"The fucker's dead," Brass growled. "It looks like he was shot in the neck and chest."

Grissom didn't even bother looking at Greg when he said, "Check the perimeter. It looks like he's missing some body parts."

"The kids that found him scared some coyotes away," Brass interjected.

"Shit," Grissom muttered, and sighed. "Make it a thirty foot radius. The odds of finding anything is pretty low if body parts were dragged away by wild animals, but it's worth a shot."

When Greg simply stared at Grissom, wondering _why_ he was supposed to be searching the perimeter in the dark, the supervisor impatiently said, "Greg. Now, please," and turned his back on the young man.

Shaking his head, Greg muttered profanities that would cause his mother to _still_ wash his mouth out with soap if she caught him. Stomping unhappily to the back of the Denali, he grabbed the industrial strength flashlight, flipped it on and flashed its beam into the oppressive dark surrounding them. He'd barely made it around the side of the vehicle, when he heard Grissom yell, "Greg, get the portable lights."

Resentfully, Greg grabbed the gear and set it up, illuminating the body of Daniel Pritchard, before heading out into dark perimeter with only his flashlight for company.

One good thing about being alone while he worked – Greg had a chance to work out his frustration through focus. Since Warrick's death, no one had been allowed to help. He, Catherine, and Nick couldn't have anything to do with it, and it was beginning to piss them off. To a degree, though, Greg could try to look at it objectively, and recognize that it was for the sake of the investigation. To that end, he could at least feel like he was doing something to help Warrick, by doing nothing and staying out of the way. This was too much, though.

He'd felt like maybe he was getting a chance to really contribute; a chance to be part of taking down Warrick's killer. Focusing on the sands in front of his flashlight, and peering under the brush he passed, he was getting angrier. With every slow spiral from the edge of his search site as he circled in toward the center, his muscles clenched.

The more he was alone in the quiet of the night, the angrier he got. The more comments Grissom made to Brass, the angrier he got. The more Grissom didn't talk to him the angrier he got. Until he was so flaming mad, he felt like he was burning up with it.

Greg turned swiftly on his heels, boiling with anger… determined to confront Grissom and explain how he felt. That he was going to work the crime scene _with_ his supervisor, whether the older man liked it or not. Grabbing his camera from around his neck, Greg's brow furrowed in fortitude.

_I'm doing this,_ Greg repeated in his head on those few steps towards the stands streaming light onto the body. _I'm doing this. Holy shit!_

The way Greg held the camera, his knuckle pressed down on the button, taking a series of pictures, and he stopped dead in his track, sucking in a hard breath. As he watched, Grissom slipped a small evidence bag into his jacket pocket.

The rapid-fire clicking drew Greg's attention, and he turned his back quickly on the scene as he released the shutter. Lifting the camera, he brought up a digital display of the photos he'd just taken in an attempt to divert himself from what he'd just seen. Delete. Delete. Delete. Greg stopped, staring at the digital display on the camera. He hadn't realized he'd swung it around in the direction of the scene. His hand must've been covering the flash, because the picture was dim, yet clear. Grissom was removing evidence.

Taking in a deep breath to regain control of his now shaky nerves, Greg said, "Hey Grissom, I'm gonna grab a bottle of water. You want one?"

The absently said, "No," was barely heard, as Greg moved toward the back of the Denali on weak knees. Opening the hatch, he sat in the back, breathing shallowly. Sure, it was a little chilly. The dry desert area _usually_ cooled in the dark, but Greg had been warm when they'd arrived and hot just seconds ago. Yet at that moment, he shook and felt beyond cold – he felt frozen.

He couldn't reconcile it. In his head, he couldn't relate the act of stealing evidence with Grissom, a man he respected nearly as much as his Papa Olaf. His heart was breaking at the thought that Grissom could be part of it, and he felt pulled in bits.

_Get a hold of yourself, Greg. Breathe._ Deep breath. _Think about it. This is Grissom we're talking about._

_Fine. Look at the evidence._ The first piece of evidence was stored in Greg's camera – shots of Grissom pocketing an evidence bag. _This is still Grissom. He wouldn't do this. He wouldn't kill someone_.

"Of course he wouldn't," Greg whispered, staring off into the unseen distance. In an instant, a long line of dominoes fell in his head… point A to point B to point C and onward down the line.

_Oh, fuck._

"It's someone in LVPD," he murmured, staring out into the desert night. Staring as the far-off sun began to lighten the sky from black to navy, he let the dominoes settle before he slowly scooted off the back end of the Denali. Moving silently to stand in the shadow of the park ranger's SUV, he watched, hidden in the shadows, until Ecklie arrived.

In those minutes, Greg Sanders came to a decision.

**X X X**

"The two of you didn't say much," Greg said. "But I saw the hand-off."

"Well, it looks like we weren't as stealthy as we thought," Ecklie stated, grimacing at Grissom. "It's a good thing Greg's the only one that figured it out."

"Yeah, well… of everyone here, I'm not surprised Greg figured it out," Brass said. When the room went silent and everyone, including Greg, stared at the detective, he shrugged his shoulder, and casually replied, "He watches. How the hell do the rest of you think he wrote his book?"

If everyone was surprised by the guffaw that escaped Grissom, they were shocked when he put his hands on his desk and laughed – long and hard. It didn't last long before he genuinely grinned at the young man and shook his head. "You acted like you wished I were dead."

"I figured if you were keeping it from us, it was because you were worried. You trust us. I've no doubt about that," Greg said. Giving his supervisor a trademark Sanders grin, he continued, "It doesn't mean I wasn't worried about you, though. So, you watched us and worried about us."

Pulling in a deep breath Greg eyed Grissom cautiously before adding, "You watched us – me, Nick, Catherine, and the lab techs. You were so worn down by then, you didn't notice that _I_ watched _you_. Primarily, because you _were_ wearing thin, and it was getting visible."

"Besides," he added, "I was ticked off after Sara left. It wasn't hard to take it up a notch. If I hadn't, people around me would've noticed. _You_ would've noticed, and I couldn't afford that. Not if I was going to watch your back."

"Why didn't you tell me or Nick?" Catherine demanded of Greg, a look of incredulity crossing her. "You're one of us."

"Because I wasn't supposed to know," Greg said. As if the logic was obvious, he added, "Therefore, I couldn't tell you."

"You could've told _me_, though," Grissom said, not quite sure what to make of the latest revelation. He gave a barking laugh before adding, "God, if I'd known you were aware…"

"What?" Greg mildly asked. "You would've stopped being you?"

Leaning back in his chair, Greg crossed his legs at the ankle and said, "The fact is, you had a plan and I wasn't part of it." He hadn't been able to keep the tinge of hurt from his voice in his last statement, but he smiled when he continued, "Besides, I trust you." As if it was a commonly known fact, Greg looked around the room before fixing his eyes back on Grissom and said, "We all do."

It was a day for firsts.

Greg Sanders left Gil Grissom speechless.


	8. Chapter 8

**Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death (Chapter 8)  
Rating:** M  
**Author:** CSIGeekFan  
**Beta:** As always, my wonderful beta, seattlecsifan, came through in a pinch. I bow to her.  
**Words:** 2300 (approximately)  
**Pairings:** Grissom/Sara, Warrick, Team  
**Spoilers:** Season 8  
**Disclaimer:** Red shoes. Check. Basket. Check. Dog. Check. Close eyes and chant, "I wish I owned CSI. I wish I owned CSI. I wish I owned CSI." Open eyes. Crap. I still don't own it.  
**Summary:** _Glancing down at his hand, Grissom pulled in a deep breath, and resolutely stepped over a line invisibly drawn in the sand, and slipped the small evidence bag into his pocket._

**X X X**

Grissom finally broke the dumbfounded silence, registering surprise when he said, "Christ, Greg. I never realized how much I underestimated you." He gave the young man a quick grin, as he chuckled once more over the prospect of his youngest CSI not only _seeing_ but _understanding_ more than even his seasoned people.

Looking around the room, he noted the expressions on the faces about him, and wondered why Greg, Nick, and Warrick looked so bemused. Granted, Grissom knew he didn't laugh much, and the fact that Greg could make him swallow his thoughts and leave him speechless was certainly new, but… he didn't think he'd become that predictable.

The grin on his face didn't fade, until he looked at Catherine. One thing he always knew was when Catherine was upset or angry, because she never tried to hide it. Staring at her, he attempted to reach back to a time when she wasn't always so angry, and found he couldn't… he couldn't remember that far back.

"I underestimated a lot of people," he quietly conceded, sobering rapidly.

"You're something, Gil," Catherine interjected, huffing a small breath. "You didn't give any of us a chance."

His eyes burned with pent-up frustration and he replied, "I couldn't risk it."

"Why?" she demanded. "We're big boys and girls, who know how to take care of ourselves. We _wanted_ to help. Shit. We _needed_ to be part of the investigation and you took that from us."

Energy shot like jolts through Catherine's limbs, and she restlessly stood, staring down at her longtime mentor and friend from in front of his desk. The disappointment in her voice rang clearly when she said, "You began to hide things from us. For God's sake, you started locking everything, even if you were in the lab."

Leaning forward on the couch, Nick dropped his forearms to his knees, and shifted the full weight of his upper body to his arms. Hanging his head, he let Catherine's words bring it all back, full force… the ache of mistrust, the feeling of being exiled by the one man he never wanted to disappoint… the general feeling of uselessness.

Slowly raising his head, Nick noted the sheen of moisture in Catherine's eyes and said to her, "The day I found his door locked…"

As his statement faded away, Catherine swiped away the tears that began to streak over her cheeks. Looking at Warrick, her breath hitched as that devastating grief hit her full force once again. Every emotion of that fateful day when he was shot welled up. Switching her gaze to Grissom, she let ire take center stage, full force, and she seethed, "You let us believe, and that's what makes you a bastard."

Turning on her heel, Catherine stalked out of Grissom's office, slamming the door so hard the blinds tapped against the windows as they shook from the force.

"Believe what?" Grissom asked the room at large, puzzled and confused.

"You let us believe we mattered to you. To the lab," Nick explained in a low voice as he stared at the floor. He didn't raise his head, until he wearily added, "Until you pulled us in toward the end of the investigation, I started to believe that we just weren't good enough." He looked at Sara and watched her fight to maintain a calm expression when he said, "We fell apart – stopped being who we are – when Warrick died."

"We fell apart long before that," Greg argued. He couldn't prevent traces of accusation from leaking into his tone when he said, "We started falling apart when Sara left."

Silence reigned as Grissom stared at Ecklie with mixed emotions. In the past months, the lab director had gained Grissom's confidence in his ability and talent, but the graveyard supervisor couldn't hold back the truth that had for so long loomed on the edge of his consciousness. "We started to change – in some ways fall apart – the day you split up the team, Conrad. Some of the changes were good; others bad."

The door slowly opened, as Grissom added, "Breaking us up gave Catherine a taste of being supervisor – a chance to see herself there and recognize her capabilities." He quickly glanced at Sara and then back to his desk. Only he and Sara would understand what breaking up the team had given _them_, and it was something he could never regret, regardless of the lines crossed or rules broken. The regret he lived with was what had happened to the dynamics of his 'guys'.

Yet, as much as he resented Ecklie breaking apart his team, Grissom fully understood precisely who was responsible for what had become of them.

"I should have never used Nick's kidnapping to get the team back together," he said, watching Catherine take her seat at the end of the couch. When she looked at him, Grissom added, "It was unfair to you, and in the end I undermined our effectiveness. I undermined _you_."

"Grissom," Catherine responded, unsure of what else to say. Since loudly clearing the air and having a chance to walk off the largest weight of betrayal, her eyes had begun to clear for the first time in months. She started to see a great deal of what had been clouded just minutes ago. As she locked eyes with Grissom, she found something missing in him.

He looked… beaten.

Brass watched from the sidelines, as Catherine won the contest of wills with her friend, and Grissom looked away. He recognized the sudden dawning of understanding that flashed for a fraction of a second across her face. The detective hadn't realized how much he'd been waiting for that moment – when someone besides him would recognize what was going on behind the mask of perpetual detachment.

Shaking off his own feelings, Brass decided it was time to change the subject.

After loudly clearing his throat, the detective smiled at Greg, and said, "To get back on track… Greg, you brought up an interesting topic – Grissom removing evidence from the scene. You might as well know, Ecklie and I did as well. More than once."

Switching his gaze to Catherine, Brass leaned forward in his chair, staring intently. "The cabinets in Grissom's office were always locked because we used them as our secured evidence storage area. His office was locked in case any slip of paper, any note… anything was ever left out accidentally."

The detective raised his eyebrows at Grissom and settled back into his chair. Taking the cue, Grissom said, "I suppose I should tell you about the first piece of evidence I lifted from the scene. I didn't want it logged… I wanted a reaction."

**X X X**

From within the confines of the brightly lit area, Grissom glanced out into the desert night, noted Greg's angry gait. Shaking his head, Grissom wearily pinched the bridge of his nose, drew in a deep breath, and focused on the bullet holes. He expected the coroner's van to arrive at any time. While he hoped Al would be taking the case, Grissom didn't want to take a chance. He had to be thorough… and fast.

Pulling out his digital camera, he took a few shots.

Glancing over his shoulder, he asked, "The body wasn't moved?" and received a nod of affirmation from Brass.

Cautiously, in latex encased hands, Grissom searched through the front pants pockets, and the shirt pocket.

"Nothing," Grissom muttered, taking a sample of crusted dirt on the victim's face. Pulling out a series of containers, he continued to take samples of blood-soaked dirt surrounding the body. Popping the lids onto the clear plastic containers that looked like film canisters, he lifted his head, noted he'd been working on the body for fifteen minutes, and once again peered out into the night, having to squint to find Greg in the dark.

Glancing back at Brass, who stood near the perimeter of lights circling the body, he asked, "Any idea when someone's supposed to get here?"

"Not yet," Brass responded. "I imagine soon, though. Pritchard's body is going to be hot."

"Hopefully hot means Al," Grissom retorted, turning back to the body. Patting down the jacket, he found the pockets empty, until he felt something inside the lining. Carefully peeling back the right side of the black leather jacket, he found a small, hidden pocket. Anticipation began to thrum through his muscles, as Grissom reached in and pulled out a cell phone.

He hadn't heard Brass walk up on him, and whipped his head around to glare at the detective, who mumbled, "Sorry."

Opening his palm, Grissom showed Brass the small black cell. Flipping it open, he began to run through the name in the address book. 'Lou Gedda' was never listed, but 'Fatman' was among the dozens of names Grissom scrolled through. Time stopped, as his mind began to work through possibilities. Whoever shot Pritchard had to be connected to Gedda. Warrick connected Pritchard to Gedda. The shooter wanted Pritchard and Warrick out of the way.

Grimly, Grissom pulled out a small evidence bag, slid the phone in, and sealed it before signing and dating it.

"Let me sign it as well," Brass murmured, staring down at Grissom until he had the CSI's attention. "I want to sign it as well. It'll be harder to argue that the evidence was manipulated or planted," the detective whispered. When Grissom nodded once, the detective smiled grimly and initialed the bag, on the seal next to Grissom's initials.

Glancing down at his hand, Grissom pulled in a deep breath, and resolutely stepped over a line invisibly drawn in the sand, and slipped the small evidence bag into his pocket. In that moment, he didn't know how to describe the overwhelming fear that settled in the back of his neck, clenching like a vice and throbbing in pain. In the background, he vaguely heard Greg yell, "Hey Grissom, I'm gonna grab a bottle of water. You want one?"

A moment of panic hit, when Grissom realized he'd lost track of where Greg was on the perimeter, but a quick check had the supervisor noting Greg's movements toward the back of the Denali.

It had taken a hell of a lot of tap dancing just to get his CSI out of the way. He wasn't sure how, but Grissom knew he'd have to find a way to make it up to Greg. The whole cloak and dagger routine was harder than he'd ever expected. Until everything happened with Warrick, Grissom never realized just how much he relied on his guys… or how damn good they were at their job.

What he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to explain was how he'd become like all those 'rent-an-experts' in the world, who sold their science. At that moment, he was fairly well convinced he was no better, and wondered if he'd ever be able to justify his actions. After all, he was pretty damn certain that before it was all over, he'd be crossing other lines, as well.

Stiffly, Grissom went back to examining the body, but found very little, and nothing else that would qualify as probative. He didn't stand from his crouched position, until the sound of another vehicle approaching pulled him from his mechanical analysis of the scene. Walking out of the brightly lit area into the dark, he watched the approach of a CSI vehicle, and let out a pent-up breath when it came to a stop and Ecklie emerged.

"I came as soon as I heard," Ecklie stated. "Fill me in, since I'm technically in charge of Warrick's case, and I've been told there are similarities."

Grissom detached himself from the welling of general anger at the world, as he led Ecklie to the body, and reviewed everything with him.

It wasn't until they were both crouched that Grissom quietly stated for Ecklie's ears only, "I pulled something off the body, and I'm not logging it."

At Ecklie's surprised look, Grissom continued, "I want to see what happens. Someone's going to want this particular item. It was a mistake on the part of the killer, and I want to see who or what crawls out of the woodwork looking for it."

"Let me do some research," Ecklie murmured quietly in response. "We need to do this right – I don't want anyone getting off on a technicality."

Before Ecklie left the scene with the first round of evidence to be analyzed at the lab, the sun was beginning to rise. It was easier to see than in the inky night, but the bright summer sun glared harsh into the CSIs eyes. Standing in the glare, Grissom reached into his pocket, palmed Pritchard's cell phone, and shook Ecklie's hand.

_I'm too goddamn old to play spy,_ Grissom thought, as he turned over his palm and left the small evidence bag in Ecklie's hand.

Very quietly, Grissom said, "Padlock it in my office."

**X X X**

"Conrad locked my office that night," Grissom said. "I locked it every day after."

Glancing at the clock, he noted the time, grabbed some folders and paperwork, and pointedly looked at each person in the room, except for Sara and Warrick. "It's time for assignments," he stated, and watched as everyone but those two quietly filed out of his office.

Warrick signed, "Meet you at the car," and walked out of Grissom's office to find Catherine waiting for him. Neither said a word as he opened his arms and she stepped into his tight embrace. Eventually, the entire group would gather again – more than likely after shift – to continue reliving everything that had happened. For just awhile, though… they wanted to push everything to the side. She'd wept over him as she'd said goodbye to a man she loved in so many complex ways.

Now she sobbed over his return.


	9. Chapter 9

**Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death (Chapter 9)  
Rating: **M  
**Author: **CSIGeekFan  
**Beta:** Seattlecsifan – thank you once again for catching all my mistakes! You are truly awesome.  
**Words:** 3100 (approximately)  
**Pairings:** Grissom/Sara, Warrick, Team  
**Spoilers:** Season 8  
**Disclaimer:** While I wish I owned CSI (please, Santa Claus… can I have some GSR for Christmas this year), it's sad because I don't.  
**Summary:** _The tear that suddenly streaked down her cheek not only surprised Sara, but irritated her as well. Brusquely wiping it away, she stared at the table, and felt homesick._

**X X X**

As months of grief melted away, Catherine held tight to her friend, finally stepping back as she said, "Well, _that_ was unexpected." Running her fingertips under her eyes, she wiped away the tears, drew a deep breath, and smiled. "I've missed you." Laughing lightly, she edged her fingertips under her eyes again, checking them to see if her mascara had run before hugging Warrick again quickly, making him smile, wishing more than anything he could laugh. He hated the sound of his breath hissing out as a laugh in place of what had once been a full, working voice. So instead, he just smiled, and tried not to get angry.

Seeing the look on Warrick's face, and recognizing the sentiment, Catherine made a snap decision and did something rare and unusual… she stuck her head into Grissom's office, tentatively said she was taking the night off, and took Warrick home for lasagna before her boss could say a single word.

"Well, that was well played," Sara said, not bothering to hide her grin as she watched Catherine and Warrick walk down the hall together – her arm wrapped through his. For the first time since her return, Sara had a moment to really look at the lab, and the changes that had occurred over the last year and a half.

Sara had known when she left that she wouldn't be coming back – not in the way she'd been. It wasn't feasible, not on an emotional or physical level. In the end, she'd given what she could to the job; she didn't want to come back. Instead, she'd spent the last year and a half trying to become an emotionally healthy person, and by doing so she'd learned to accept help in return.

"You know, Ecklie actually apologized," Sara said, once Warrick and Catherine had disappeared from sight. "He told me he was sorry that he was going to have to fill mine and Warrick's slots. That we wouldn't be able to come back."

She'd avoided looking at Grissom until she felt a light touch on her knee. Staring into the darkening blue orbs, she quietly rasped, "I've never been able to tell you how sorry I am – about everything. About what our relationship has done to your career. How my leaving affected you."

His hoarse reply was barely audible, "It didn't just affect me."

It took sheer strength of will to hold back the dam of emotions, and Grissom closed his eyes against the threatening flood. Finally, after repeating the first ten elements of the periodic table in his head, he opened them and more strongly added, "It affected us both. Not just me. It took down your career entirely, and made you an outcast. A lot of bridges got burned."

It felt good when Sara realized something significant in that moment – she could laugh about it… which is what she did as she replied, "Gil, I lost my mind; went off the deep end; lost my marbles. I can give you a thousand ways to say it, but I was an emotional and mental wreck. I don't care how many bridges of _my own_ that I burned. I've been more concerned how many bridges I burned on your behalf."

He gave her a shrug before responding, "Actually, I'm fine – took a little fallout after people found out about us, but in the end I've got well over two decades of lectures and work behind me, so…" He ended the statement with a shrug, as well.

Cocking her head, Sara studied him, and watched his reaction when she tacked on, "This is as sane as I'm going to get, y'know." The humor sparkling through his eyes had her smiling, leaning forward, and kissing his cheek. When he gave her a _what was that for? _look, she said, "This is just for being a damn good guy," and kissed him lingeringly on the lips.

She would have continued the light caress, but she saw something out of the corner of her eye and couldn't help but chuckle when Hodges walked past Grissom's office.

"That's his fifth trip outside my office in the last couple of minutes," Grissom offered, grinning and trying to capture her evading lips again.

Sara had to smile – leave it to Gris to always know where his people were and what they were up to. In all the time they'd been together, the only time he'd been clueless as to the motivations of his people was those few years when he couldn't seem to get his head out of his ass and make a move even _he_ would currently, willingly admit was fate-in-waiting. She couldn't fault him, though. Odds were any type of relationship between them would have failed without the struggle to _prove_ to the two scientists that chemistry and common interest truly could sustain them.

Sighing, Sara sat back in her chair, and watched him quizzically. Her mind was drawn to the lab once more, and all the changes, as Hodges once more passed by Grissom's office.

"What _did_ you tell the lab techs?" Sara mused aloud.

When she didn't receive a response after twenty seconds, her brown eyes widened, as did her grin; she lightly smacked Grissom on the back of the head, and he gave an exaggerated, "Ouch!"

"You didn't tell them," she stated, knowing she was right, holding back the laugh sitting on the edge of her throat.

"They figured it out pretty fast," he supplied, with a nonchalant shrug, which caused Sara's laughter to finally burst free. "I heard Henry nearly passed out when he saw you and Warrick walk in yesterday." She laughed even harder.

After calming herself, she looked out into the hall again, and was about to suggest to Grissom that he at least put a notice on the bulletin board that the dead were walking once again.

Instead, Sara said, "He's tenacious, I'll give him that," as she watched David Hodges once again walk past the door, trying his very best to _not_ step inside, or even look.

"Hodges!" Grissom finally yelled.

"Grissom," the Trace tech responded… so quickly, he surprised Grissom. "Sara," Hodges added. "Visiting for awhile? Or are you planning on staying this time."

She stopped laughing, and contemplated the abrasive ass in front of her, but smiled wide when she said, "Gee, Hodges. I missed you, too."

"I didn't mean that the way it sounded," he replied as the smile dropped from his face. "You're looking good, Sidle."

"Thanks, David. And to answer your question… my home is with Gil."

Her response made Grissom smile as he pulled open a file and pretended to read. He finally let out a resigned breath before saying, "I think everyone's waiting on assignments, my dear." Raising an eyebrow at Hodges, he asked, "Did you need something to do? Because I'm sure I can come up with more work for you…"

"You're cruel," Sara murmured, as she watched Hodges stammer a little before quickly exiting and heading back towards his own domain. With a quick pat on Grissom's shoulder, she picked her jacket off the back of the chair, and proceeded out the door with a quick wave, saying, "I'll see you back here after shift."

**X X X**

A few hours and a dog walk later, Sara sat down in a booth at Frank's and raised her hand toward the waitress. Her eyes widened in surprise, when Nick and Greg slipped into the seat across from her. Sara couldn't help but note the look in the waitress's eyes as she weaved between tables carrying a tray of cups, silently setting them in front of the trio, before leaning over Greg to kiss Nick on the cheek.

Standing next to Greg with her pad and pen in hand, the redhead studied Sara, while Sara raised a brow in return. Finally, one of them spoke.

"I'm Stephanie," the waitress offered. "You must be Sara."

Giving Nick a confused look, Stephanie's eyes darted around the room before she murmured, "I'd hoped to see the other one. Warrick."

At Sara's questioning look, Nick quietly said, "We were here that night. You know that. Out in the alley is where... Steph was our waitress, and I was tryin' to hit on her when it all went to hell. When I came back later… after the funeral… to see the scene, she was here then, too." There was no mistaking the look in his eyes when he glanced up at the woman in question, reached over to clasp her hand in his and rub his thumb across her fingers. Sara couldn't help but grin at the quiet tone when he added, "Stephanie was here when I fell apart."

Nick's grin turned lazy and made his eyes spark when his Texas drawl went deep and he said, "She's still here."

Rolling her eyes, Sara smiled and said to Nick, "Finally found one that sees past the lines you toss out, huh?"

Stephanie laughed when Nick's accent got impossibly thick and he replied, "Yep. Doesn't think I'm all that charming, either." Glancing up at her, he added, "Do you, darlin'." It was a statement, not a question. His 'southern charm' had done more to irritate than enthrall her, and he'd learned to put away the perpetual smile for honest affection.

"You're going to have to let go if you want me to get the coffee," she teased Nick, who released her hand with an exaggerated sigh, which was fine with Greg, seeing as her elbow had been an inch from his nose as she'd reached across him.

Sara watched the interplay and could see the spark so clearly between them it was blinding. Grinning, she watched the three of them banter, as Greg threw in a comment, and the trio laughed. She found it wonderful that she could watch them and _not_ feel left out. However, she also realized what she'd been missing while she was gone, and wondered how she'd lived all those months without the boys picking on her.

The tear that suddenly streaked down her cheek not only surprised Sara, but irritated her as well. Brusquely wiping it away, she stared at the table, and felt homesick. Memories of laughing over breakfast, talking quietly over a tough case, or even just sitting together in silence overwhelmed her, as quiet tears continued to fall, mingled with frustrated sniffling, and she continued to roughly wipe them away. She hadn't noticed the reigning silence, until she felt a hand reach over and come to rest in her line of sight as she continued to stare down at the table top. Pulling her hand from her lap, she laid it across the masculine fingers in front of her, drawing a deep breath in an attempt to gain better control. Slowly looking up, she watched Greg's other hand cover hers, as he stood from his seat opposite her and scooted in next to her in the booth.

"I didn't have much choice, and I knew if I'd talked to him… I would have stayed, and nothing would have been right. Not after the desert," she hoarsely blurted. She knew she wasn't making much sense, but she didn't know how to explain it… why she left and how she left. Why Grissom understood, when the others didn't... and she didn't, either.

"Slow down," Greg said. "Just slow down."

He kept his distance, waiting for Sara to regain control, but keeping her hand sandwiched between his. For a moment, he contemplated his own feelings. While he'd forgiven her leaving in such an abrupt manner, the anger that had been so much at the forefront had moved to the back of his mind, churning to the surface upon occasion. Once she drew in a deep breath and pulled her hand back to sit palm-down on the table top, he relaxed back into his seat.

Sara's voice was calm, although her hands shook when she said, "I had to leave, and I know my actions took a toll." She couldn't break her gaze from Greg's when she continued, "I didn't mean to hurt or disappoint anyone. It was never my intention to just abandon you. But what I needed to do couldn't be done here. Not until the end of my time there, and then I _couldn't_ come home, because I needed to take care of Warrick."

"You could have talked to us," Greg replied, failing to shove down the residual resentment and hurt.

"No, I couldn't," Sara replied, attempting a mild grin that didn't meet her watery eyes. "I couldn't have talked to you, because every time I tried, my tongue got twisted in knots, just like my stomach. On top of that, I needed to do this on my own. They were _my_ demons to face. As it was, Warrick ended up seeing parts of my life I never wanted anyone to see. Even when he was in the same room, he couldn't help."

"Then tell us about it now," Nick said.

Stephanie, having sat in Greg's spot next to Nick after Greg shifted to the other side of the booth, stood and smiled at Sara. "I'll leave the three of you to talk," she quietly said. Reaching out her hand, Stephanie smiled, and waited while Sara placed her hand out to shake. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Sara. The boys talk about you all the time."

As Stephanie walked away, Nick said, "I thought you were coming home before Warrick got shot and your plans were changed?"

"I was," Sara replied.

Catching onto what Nick was probing at, Greg asked, "If you'd been through the worst, then how was it that Warrick was there for part of it?"

Smiling bitterly, she replied, "Because it turned out I was wrong. It turned out I hadn't found the last of it… that piece that was so much worse than all the rest."

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. Of all the people who'd come in and out of her life, Sara figured her guys were the ones she trusted most to voluntarily share the worst of her past. Grissom already knew, but then again, he knew it all. Even with Nick and Greg, two men she trusted with her life, Sara could only reveal bits and pieces. It would have to be enough.

**X X X**

Sara tiptoed backward through Warrick's bedroom door. Amanda, the nurse that Warrick was sure tortured him for the hell of it, was off for the afternoon running errands, but she'd given Sara specific instructions on how to change the bandages on his neck. They'd been battling infection from the first day, but in the past week Sara and Amanda had begun to see the light at the end of the tunnel, as the wound _finally_ seemed to be healing. Even after nearly a month, Warrick tired easily, often sleeping hours at a time, followed by just a couple hours of being awake. Today, he'd been so tired after physical therapy that he'd immediately collapsed from exhaustion, and that had been over two hours ago.

Shutting the door, Sara quietly tiptoed around the squeaky parts of the hardwood floor in the small hall between the bedrooms and the kitchen. Once seated at the kitchen table, Sara pulled open a box she'd set there earlier, and began to pull out file upon file. It had taken a year, but she'd finally gotten a copy of the case file as well as the trial transcript.

Pushing the transcript aside, she opened a file folder to find a list of those items contained within the case file. After flipping through pages, she realized that the entire case file was nothing more than a guide to the evidence contained not only in the box sitting next to her on the table, but to the six other boxes in her bedroom.

Taking a deep breath, Sara concentrated, trying to solidify the liquefying energy humming through her mind. Reaching for the next thing in the box, she pulled up a plastic bag and felt her chest tighten. Through a haze of tears and with trembling hands, she opened the evidence bag, and frantically pulled out a small piece of fabric – her blanky.

Setting it on the table, she stared at the fragment of what had once been a quilt. The small green fuzzy material was ragged at the edges, and she wanted so much to pick it up and rub the cheep velour against her cheek. As a baby, it had warmed her, as a toddler, it had been worn to pieces. By the time she was eight, it was shredded, and her mother had cut away everything but that single two foot by two foot piece.

Lightly laying a finger over the plush material, she didn't even try to hide the sobs, as comfort flowed from it to her. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry, as she held her one true source of reassurance through the worst of times. So she did both, until she jumped at the feel of a hand on her shoulder.

She shook, violently, as Warrick sat next to her, never taking his hand from her shoulder.

"M-my blanky," she whispered, feeling elated and foolish all at once. Sniffing, Sara wiped at her face with her hand, and added, "I haven't seen my blanky in so long, I'd forgotten." She didn't know how to say that she'd forgotten how it felt against her face when her parents yelled, or how she used to wrap it around her ears, when the yelling turned to hits. Not even Grissom knew how her green patch of stained fabric would get tucked in next to her by her mom and dad each time they got back from the hospital.

**X X X**

Grinning shyly and feeling her cheeks burn, Sara reached into her pocket, while Nick and Greg stared at her dumbfounded. Pulling out the small patch of threadbare forest green material, the blood stain was evident, but by the way the edges were worn, so was the fondness.

"I know it seems foolish," she said, trying not to smile out of sheer nervousness as she admitted her biggest secret. "It just makes me feel better to have it in my pocket while I'm giving my statement."

Neither Greg nor Nick had a clue how to respond, until Greg finally broke the silence.

"Holy crap. Sara Sidle carries a blanky."


	10. Chapter 10

**Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death (Chapter 10)  
Rating:** M  
**Author:** CSIGeekFan  
**Beta:** My dear seattlecsifan – you are, as always, a true friend (to put up with such a _predictable_ friend).  
**Words:** 2200 (approximately)  
**Pairings:** Grissom/Sara, Warrick, Team  
**Spoilers:** Season 8  
**Disclaimer:** If the meek will inherit the Earth, will GSR fans inherit the show?  
**Summary:** _Looking around the room, Ecklie found everyone staring at him, and finally focused on Warrick. "I nearly got you killed. Again."_

**X X X**

It was the end of shift, as Sara sauntered through the front doors of the building that housed the LVPD crime lab.

"Hey Judy," she said, smiling mildly at the receptionist.

"Good morning, Sara," Judy replied. "It's good to have you back. Mister Grissom and the others are waiting in his office." Reaching for something on her desk, she added, "Here are some temporary credentials."

"Thanks," Sara replied, fixing the laminated security badge to her pants.

"Hey Sara?" Judy more quietly called out, just as the brunette moved away. When Sara turned her head back toward the receptionist's desk, Judy smiled wide and said, "I hope maybe I'll be able to give you back your permanent credentials."

"You know, that's the best compliment I think I've gotten in a long time," Sara replied before heading toward Grissom's office.

"Sorry I'm late," Sara said from the doorway, feeling a little embarrassed as everyone else was already seated. She gave a crooked grin, ducked her head, and tucked her long dark hair behind her ear as she crossed Grissom's office. Her eyes sparkled with humor when she added, "I'm trying to readjust to graveyard hours after all this time on normal human being hours. I fell asleep."

Only Catherine, seated closest to Grissom, saw his hand reach out the few inches necessary to brush his fingers against Sara's as she took her seat next to him. Glancing at Warrick, Catherine had to stifle a laugh at his _I told you so_ look – with a quirky grin and a raised brow.

"Okay, Grissom," Greg eagerly started. "You said you hid Pritchard's cell phone to get a reaction, but you never mentioned what actually happened."

"We didn't get a reaction at all," Brass stated, frowning at Greg and then addressing Grissom. "I take that back. We got a reaction – and just didn't know it."

"How's that?" Nick asked.

"Actually, this part is mine," interjected Ecklie, who had until that moment, appeared to be filling out paperwork and ignoring everything around him.

Dropping his clipboard on the floor next to his chair, Ecklie looked at Grissom and then at Brass, receiving a nod to continue from each.

"I always figured I could read people," Ecklie stated. "I have never hidden my ambitions. However, what happened next was my fault –"

"Conrad," Grissom interjected, only to be met with Ecklie's hand raised palm-out, signaling the graveyard supervisor to stop.

"I didn't recognize it. Not even close. After weeks of investigation, knowing full well we had someone inside the LVPD killing cops – good and bad – I damn near blew it."

Looking around the room, Ecklie found everyone staring at him, and finally focused on Warrick. "I nearly got you killed. Again."

**X X X**

Ecklie, Grissom, and Brass stood staring at the multitude of items on the counter top in Grissom's office – swabs of blood, pictures of the striations on the bullet, pictures of the scene, and a cell phone sitting on top of an evidence bag.

"What did you get off the phone, Gil?" Ecklie asked, his tone all business.

"Not much," Grissom replied, then sighed. "I went through every phone number in here and can verify to whom they belong. There was an entry under 'Dick' for the private investigator, and of course an entry under 'Fatman' for Gedda. There's another number that goes to a disposable phone, but it's virtually untraceable."

Blowing out a breath, Ecklie murmured, "So, we're still at square one."

"NO!" Grissom responded, surprising the other two men.

"You okay, Grissom?" Brass asked, causing the CSI supervisor to blow out a long breath and rub his eyes.

Eventually, Grissom replied, "I'm fine." Picking up the cell phone and staring at it, he continued, "We're not at square one, Conrad. We know more than we did the day Warrick was shot. Furthermore, we have backups of all the evidence, should any get 'lost' along the way."

Finally turning his head, he said, "I know it's been almost a month and a half and we didn't get the break we'd hoped for with this," and he raised his hand to indicate the cell phone he held. "However," he placed the cell phone back in the bag, "we'll get it. Warrick's getting better, and while he might not be able to remember the shooting, he's starting to remember that night."

Reaching under the table at which they stood, Grissom moved a couple of pegs and watched the table drop several inches. Pulling down a metal slab, it dropped into position over the evidence, concealing it. Two small padlocks underneath secured one table top over the other, and the thick edge around the table concealed the hidden area altogether.

Grissom sat at his desk and dropped the 'official' report of Warrick's murder on top of all the other case files, while Brass and Ecklie made their way to the door.

Within minutes, Ecklie stood in front of his own office and wondered when it had become so bland. Until everything had started, he'd always viewed his office as neutral, yet welcoming. He'd had no idea it was outright boring until he'd walked in a few weeks earlier and realized… it really was an unpleasant place to be.

Taking a seat behind his desk, he flipped through budget reports, effectively pushing Warrick's case to the back of his mind. He had no idea an hour had passed, until he dropped the last budget report and glanced at the clock, which showed ten o'clock at night. There was no doubt in his mind that Grissom was still working – the man rarely slept anymore. So, when someone knocked on his office door and he yelled, "Come in!" he was surprised to find Catherine instead of Grissom standing there.

"We're tired of being locked out," she seethed. "I want in on the investigation."

**X X X**

"Oh, Christ," Catherine mumbled, sitting back on the couch. "I was so pissed at you. At Grissom. At everyone."

The breathless, stunned look on her face made Ecklie wince, and he responded, "It was the hardest thing we had to do – shutting out everyone, and in the process isolating ourselves. But the longer the investigation continued, the more convinced we became we were doing the right thing."

"Why?" Nick asked, frowning in thought.

"First, we were worried for the safety of anyone actively involved in the investigation itself – not on a lab tech level, but on an analysis and detection level," Ecklie replied. "Second, the graveyard shift was too emotionally involved."

Ecklie looked Catherine in the eye and challenged, "Are you going to tell me that you weren't emotionally involved? Because you and I both know his death hit you hard. Maybe hardest."

Looking away, she stared at her lap, unmoving, until she felt Warrick's hand grasp hers, and he bumped his shoulder against hers. When she looked over at him, he grinned, gave her a thumbs up, and bumped her shoulder again.

Sympathy was a rare thing to hear in Conrad Ecklie's voice, but was evident when he said, "More than anything, we wanted whoever shot Warrick to pay. Arguments could be made about evidence tampering. It's happened before. We wanted to protect you from the potential of facing that on the stand, as well."

"Then what about Grissom?" Greg asked.

Everyone's eyes were trained to Ecklie, when he said, "Think about it. We're talking about a man who is known for his objectivity and lack of emotion. How often has he ever really shown that he feels anything? How often has everyone thought of him as a robot? And be honest here."

While everyone else watched Ecklie, Sara and Greg watched Grissom. His eyes had dropped to his desk, and Sara heard the sharp intake of breath when Ecklie continued, "Let's face it, the man can put away whatever he's feeling."

Sara gripped Grissom's hand, and Greg began to seethe when Ecklie blithely added, "Let's face it, how many people here even knew he and Sidle were dating? At least Sara is passionate about what she does, even if I often disagree with her."

When Sara felt Grissom's hand squeeze hard, she quietly said, "That's because you don't know him," and felt his grip loosen a little.

He tilted his head and gave her a wobbly smile. "Thank you, dear, but he's right. I believe even _you_ have let me know that I can be an emotionless ass."

"Yeah, well," she mumbled, her face flaming in response. "I don't think I used the word ass." In an attempt to divert everyone's attention away from her, Sara asked Ecklie, "So, what happened after that? You still haven't explained."

After giving Grissom a semi-apologetic look, Ecklie fell silent, and even the muffled sounds of people going about their work faded, until Ecklie said, "I handed the investigation over to the undersheriff. I nearly handed over _our_ entire investigation, as well," Ecklie said. Feelings of naiveté and ignorance washed over him, as he explained.

**X X X**

Ecklie sat back in his desk, hating the fact he had to say 'No' to Catherine and the rest of the graveyard crew all the time. It wasn't the first time one of them had shown up at his door, asking to be part of the investigation.

However, it was the first time Catherine had outright lost her cool and crossed the line of insubordination. He was thankful no one else was around at the time or he would've had to suspend her. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and tried to get the ulcer-building knot in his stomach to untie.

Tiredly, he began to straighten his desk, popping an antacid in the process. So, when he heard someone knock on his door again, he mumbled, "For God's sake," under his breath, before resignedly yelling, "Come in!"

The last person Ecklie expected to see was Undersheriff Jeff McKeen standing in his doorway.

"Conrad," McKeen quietly said, taking a seat across from Ecklie. "You're here late."

Politely, Ecklie smiled grimly and said, "We've been burning a lot of midnight oil."

"And that is precisely why I'm here," McKeen said, smiling. "I'm here to help with the Brown investigation." The smile dropped just a little and McKeen added a touch of sympathy through the furrowing of his brow and the falling of his lips when he added, "In fact, I'm here to see if I need to take over."

For a moment, Ecklie froze, unsure of what to say. It was the first time he'd been unable to come up with some kind of response in the face of pressure; but his chest burned and he wasn't sure what the hell to say, because his mind was repeating words he'd _never_ say out loud: _Oh fuck, we blew it._

Ecklie figured he _must_ look pasty and stunned, considering McKeen stood and leaned across his desk to lay a hand on the assistant lab director's shoulder.

"Are you okay?" McKeen asked, concern leaking through his tone. As if something was dawning on the undersheriff, his eyes widened, and he said, "I'm not replacing you and Brass… and Grissom."

Before Ecklie could respond, McKeen gave Ecklie a conspiratorial grin and wink, "I know Grissom's been working on the case, even though it's a conflict of interest. However, I have faith in you and Brass to make sure he doesn't compromise the evidence."

It was something in the undersheriff's tone that had Ecklie breathing a little easier than before McKeen entered the office. Smiling in response to the undersheriff's explanation, Ecklie leaned back in his chair as McKeen relaxed into his own.

"Well, we could always use another set of eyes on the evidence," Ecklie stated.

"Tell me about it," McKeen requested, and settled in to listen to a rundown of the evidence.

That's precisely what Ecklie did – he told the undersheriff about the evidence, and lamented the fact that they felt like they were getting nowhere.

"So, is that it?" McKeen asked half an hour later.

Smiling and feeling good over reviewing the data with his superior, Ecklie found himself relaxing. He opened his mouth to speak – to relay the information regarding the hidden evidence – when the folder labeled _Brown, W._ caught his eye, and everything came back full force. For once he was thankful for the dozens of events he'd had to attend where he'd had to keep a neutral face and look pleasant.

"Yes, that's it," Ecklie said, glancing at the clock and purposely rubbing his eyes once again.

"You know, it's pretty late. I'll catch up with you again later this week," McKeen said, making his way to the door. Before departing, he said, "It looks like you've got everything well handled."

**X X X**

"I damn near let my ego cost us the investigation," Ecklie murmured, staring at the floor, as he sat with his elbows on his knees and leaning forward.

"We all had our moments," Brass said. "We all wanted to ask for help, but…"

"But none of us could," Sara said. "We knew that from the start."

"I'm just glad we didn't need to worry about you and Warrick," Grissom stated, giving Sara an almost shy grin. "The one thing that kept me moving forward was knowing you and Warrick were out of harm's way."

He didn't miss it when Sara's eyes darted to Warrick's and quickly back to his. Every nerve along his neck and spine burst to life, leaving a tingling chill shivering down his body.

"What aren't you telling me?" Grissom asked.


	11. Chapter 11

**Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death (Chapter 11)  
Rating:** M (Primarily language)  
**Author:** CSIGeekFan  
**Beta:** I must once again thank my dear friends seattlecsifan and moomarie. Thank you both for reading the chapter and keeping me in line.  
**Words:** 3300 (approximately)  
**Pairings:** Grissom/Sara, Warrick, Team  
**Spoilers:** Season 8  
**Disclaimer:** Do you really think I'd be writing fan fiction if I owned CSI?  
**Summary:** _Closing her eyes, she took a practiced calming breath and whispered, "I know, slow it down, Sidle. Breathe deep. Workin' on it, boss." His chuckle did more to ease the strain on her than anything else could have, and she languidly closed her eyes._

**X X X**

Sara looked guiltily at Warrick, and then back to Grissom. She knew eventually he would need to know, but had dreaded this moment; only Brass and Warrick had known about it.

Blowing out a long breath, she felt every nerve come alive with remembered tension over the last several months. At Warrick's pointed look, something passed between them while everyone watched. It was only in the manner of Warrick's upraised brows and tilt of his head and Sara's huffing nod, but something vital was communicated between them, and Sara suddenly stood, surprising everyone.

"I need coffee," she muttered and stalked to the doorway. "It turns out Lou Gedda's reach is a hell of a lot farther than Vegas." She wasn't particularly shocked that both her hands began to tremble, as adrenaline rushed back through her system. "Excuse me," she muttered, heading toward the exit, without even pausing at the lobby.

She'd been trying to forget about it for awhile – the constant fear she'd lived with when they realized they were being watched, the insistent shock of adrenaline she woke with every morning and that prevented her from sleeping every night. The only other people who had known were Brass and Warrick. Yet she worried if Brass knew how her breath caught at the sight of the dark gray Chevy Malibu parked down the block, he'd tell Grissom, and she couldn't have that. From everything she'd heard from Ecklie and Brass, Gil was tired – obviously so.

Warrick tried to share her worry, but the fact was, he was still in his recovery period. He didn't have enough stamina to worry about making dinner, let alone some guy parked down the street.

As she paced back and forth in front of the building in the rising sun, every part of her felt cold. She didn't hear Grissom call her name, or Warrick's familiar high-low "Sara" whistle.

She was startled so bad, she swung out of instinct and nearly punched him when Grissom grabbed her arm to halt her.

"Sara!" he yelled, pulling her to him and raising his hand just in time to block her blow.

"Oh Christ, Gil," she murmured, realizing who had surprised her, and she wrapped her arms around him. So much had been eating at her, it seemed like everything was a ball of cotton yarn – she had to keep the threads tight, but if she tugged too hard she'd break them. "I should've told you," she said. "I hadn't seen you in nearly two months, you sounded like shit on the phone, and from what I was being told by a few people here, you were running yourself into the ground. I just couldn't tell you."

Closing her eyes, she took a well practiced calming breath and whispered, "I know, slow it down, Sidle. Breathe deep. Workin' on it, boss." His chuckle did more to ease the strain on her than anything else could have, and she sighed.

"Do you need to walk?" he asked, holding her tight around the waist.

"Yeah."

"Alone?" he asked.

Pulling back, she gave an apologetic upturn of the lips that became more a twisted frown than anything, and nodded. The irritated, "Oh shit," indicated to Grissom that Sara had just realized the entire crew stood behind him.

When her cheeks stained pink and she struggled to determine which emotion to display to the rest of the team (with Grissom knowing her well enough to anticipate that she'd settle on irritation or irrational anger), he guided her down the walkway toward the parking lot. Once away from the audience, he picked up her hand, studied her fingers, and said, "I'm not sure how I feel right now, and we'll talk about that. Right now, you need a walk and maybe some coffee. Frank's. Thirty minutes."

She may not have been able to read precisely how angry he was at that moment, but certainly felt his trust when he leaned in and gave her a quick peck on the cheek – a rare display from a man horribly uncomfortable with showing his affection in public.

With a nod, she disconnected her hand and walked away, while Grissom stood stock still and waited for Brass to approach. "Look, Gil, maybe I should've talked to you about it – told you what I knew, but I promised her –"

"Not a word, Jim. Not right now," Grissom mildly stated, feeling his blood pressure rise. "I want to hear this from Sara, not anyone else." While he appeared to be calm, his mind was seething, _What the fuck am I supposed to say? I hope she understands I need that thirty minutes, too._

Instead of walking back inside with everyone else, he took the opportunity to walk in the opposite direction of Sara.

Sara. His lover. His best friend. His other half.

As all of this echoed through his head, he had to admit one thing – she may be a part of him, and a part of what defined him – but she was also a worrier.

By the time he met up with everyone thirty minutes later at Frank's, he'd burned off the anger. He'd never really had anyone take care of him before; not the way she did. How could he fault her for worrying over him? The point of contention came down to her not being forthright, and he figured he'd approach her from this perspective. After all, a lie by omission is still a lie…

Meanwhile, Sara had already dug in her heels. She'd had her reasons, but could unfortunately see all of his, and the validity of those arguments. However, she really didn't feel in the mood to be too terribly rational.

They were the last two to arrive – first Sara, and then a few minutes later Grissom. An alcove at the back had been set, courtesy of Stephanie, who smiled at Warrick, a man she'd heard so many great stories about. The waitress was thrilled to meet the man who had commanded such undying loyalty in Nick.

Noting Sara's distracted look, Nick's girlfriend smiled at everyone, shook Warrick's hand once again, and quietly dismissed herself, promising to just leave a couple of coffee pots at their table and provide them what privacy she could.

No one really spoke to Sara as she slid into an empty chair and looked around. Finally blowing out a rough breath, she frowned at Brass and said, "You could've talked me out of it."

Brass couldn't help the grin. He'd known Sara long enough to know that she'd never be predictable, but trying to lay it at his feet was a new one. "Actually, Sara, I believe I tried," he lightly stated, grinning at Stephanie as she set a tray of cups, menus, and a pot of coffee in front of him. Pouring some of the black liquid into a cup, he added, "As a matter-of-fact, I believe I argued with you for almost three solid hours, and _told_ you that keeping this from Grissom wasn't a bright idea."

She couldn't help the lopsided grin when she quietly replied, "Yeah, well. Next time, argue harder."

Warrick, meanwhile, rolled his eyes and shook his head, because _he_ certainly remembered the argument Sara and Brass had that day.

Grissom arrived and took the only remaining seat, right next to Sara. Reaching under the table, he brushed his hand against the back of hers before pouring them each a cup of coffee.

"So, why don't you tell us about the mob, Sara," Grissom said, causing all the whispers and quiet conversations around the table to cease. Everyone turned to stare at the brunette.

Heaving an exaggerated sigh, she shrugged a shoulder and said, "What can I say… apparently I've lost my powers of observations, because I'm not even the one that realized they were there, and probably had been for awhile."

**X X X**

He was due to arrive at any moment, and Sara walked into the bathroom for the tenth time in as many minutes. It had been six weeks since she'd seen him, smelled him, felt him… the anticipation was killing her, causing nervous jitters to skitter across her back.

Warrick's wolf-whistle had her spinning around to give him a harried look while he settled into an arm chair and wrote, "You look hot," on his small eraser board. "When does he get here?"

"Anytime now," she replied. Really looking at Warrick, Sara said, "He's going to be thrilled to see you up and moving. For a guy that a month and a half ago was shot in the neck and chest, and then declared dead and buried, you're looking pretty good."

She rolled her eyes when he signaled for her to spin and show off the baby blue thin-strapped sundress, giving her a thumbs-up at the exposed skin on display from the backless dress. "We're talking about your boss, so you might want to think about _what_ you're wolf-whistling about," she teased.

When he tilted his head at her, Sara asked, "What?"

He gave her a grin and wrote, "You seem different."

Taking a spot on the couch near him, Sara replied, "I _am_ different in terms of confidence and self-assurance. However, I'm still a scientist at heart. I'm still a puzzle solver at heart. I'm still Sara."

"Whatever it is, I like it," Warrick wrote, feeling a little awkward at writing something so personal. Her sudden hug pushed the boundaries from awkward to embarrassed, and he felt his face flush. Their relationship had always been defined by witty retorts, obnoxious jibes, and slaps on the back. Over the past weeks, though, they'd deepened their relationship from shallow friendship to good friends. Smiling wide once more, he made Sara laugh with, "You still look hot, though."

The sound of a car pulling into the drive had Sara slowly turning to stare at the front door. She and Warrick were waiting anxiously when the knock sounded just a couple of minutes later.

Opening the door, her smile didn't just drop, it plummeted, and she could barely breathe.

"Where's Grissom? Where's Gil?" she asked Jim Brass.

"He's fine, but he ended up in court," Brass stated, immediately allowing Sara's heartbeat to ease. The detective's neutral expression dropped to a frown, though, when he quietly whispered in her ear, "Just how long have you had someone watching you?"

**X X X**

"Things went downhill after that," Brass stated, as Grissom just stared. The detective laughed and said, "Don't give me that look, Gil. You weren't there for the best part. I'm just thankful I hadn't given Sara a gun."

"That may be so, but I don't find anything funny about this, Jim," Grissom responded, his frown creasing his forehead, and threatening to give him a headache.

He was questioning whether he could take much more when Brass said, "Maybe you should ask Sara to finish the story. In fact," he added, turning to stare at the brunette, "I think you should ask her how she knew they were with the mob."

The snort and eye roll from Warrick confirmed to Grissom that he really wasn't sure he wanted to know what had happened. He just wanted to repeat the chant in his head, _She's safe. She's safe. She's safe._

**X X X**

After calming down from the shock of seeing Brass instead of Grissom standing on the doorstep, the detective's words finally registered, and she said, "Huh?"

"You haven't noticed the car down the block?" Brass asked. "Dark silver. Heavily tinted windows. Looks brand new."

Glancing past Brass, Sara stared at the rear window of the vehicle in question – the window that faced the house.

"There was someone in it when I passed, although the windows are tinted even in the front and I couldn't make much out," Brass explained. When he put his hand on her arm, Sara yanked free and took a step out onto the front porch.

"Sara, what are you doing?" Brass asked, being joined by Warrick.

It was just one thing too many. One too many crises in her life. One too many stressors. Grissom not showing up followed by this revelation was just too much, and on top of it all she felt stupid. Thinking back over the last few weeks, she vaguely remembered that just a month ago the vehicle wasn't there. If she had to hazard a guess, she and Warrick started being watched just over three weeks previous.

"I'm done," she whispered to herself. Turning around, she waved Brass and Warrick in, and waited until Warrick took Brass to the kitchen to get some lemonade. She didn't want the detective stopping her.

As soon as they were out of sight, she slipped out onto the front porch. She was two thirds of the way to the vehicle when Brass walked back into the living room and realized what she'd done. "Oh, fuck. If she gets herself killed, Grissom will kill me," he muttered, running out the front door.

Sara, in the meanwhile felt the welling of hysteria push her close to the edge, and all she could focus on was the car; so that when she ran the last thirty feet, she found herself slamming her hand into the passenger window, screaming. Brass finally caught up to her, grabbing her arm and yanking her hard against him.

"Damn it, Sara, do you have a death wish or something?" he asked, his voice rising, until he yelled, "DO YOU?"

"Actually, no. For a change, I really don't," she replied. "I haven't for quite awhile. If anything, I value living my life more now than I ever have in the past." Her eyes turned hard as she stared at the detective and ground out, "I've gone through too goddamn much and I want to be left in peace. Honestly, why should I have to live in fear? Why should Warrick? I've spent over a year fighting back the fear that has flooded my senses for most of my life. NO ONE IS GOING TO TAKE THAT FROM ME!"

Brass yanked her behind him when the driver's side door opened and a tall man in his mid-thirties stood up, never leaving the confines of the open door. In a lot of ways, he physically reminded Sara of Nick.

Having spent her energy on _that_ lovely confrontation, she found she just couldn't find it in her to really care. She was tired of so much, and ached to have it all end.

"If you're going to kill us, then kill us," she said, as Brass lowered his hand to his weapon harness.

"Christ, Sara, let's not invite trouble."

The man just smiled and quietly said, "You won't be getting trouble from me. My boss wants to make sure you come through this unscathed."

"And who is your boss?" Sara asked, not really wanting to know the answer, because she had a bad feeling she knew the answer already, based on the obviously concealed bulge under the man's jacket.

"Let's just say he's got long arms – and they reach beyond just California," the man responded with a grin. As he started to bend to get back into the vehicle, he changed his mind and stood again. "The name's John. The guy that spells me is Terry. Tall, black hair. He takes nights." He smiled at Brass when he shrugged and said, "You'd get that much with a DMV check on my car."

With that last statement, Jack was once again concealed in his vehicle.

Holding her arm, Brass escorted Sara back to the front porch and muttered, "You know what, Sara, you've used most of your nine lives. Please don't volunteer mine the next time you go on a suicide mission."

It wasn't until she quietly asked, "He's really okay?" that Brass got a good look in her eyes.

"Yeah. He's worried about you," he said. "He'll worry more when I tell him you've got the mob in front of your house."

"Then don't tell him," Sara casually stated, mentally preparing herself for the argument to come.

**X X X**

"So in the end you didn't tell me," Grissom summated.

"No offense, Gil, but I'm more afraid of Sara than I am of you," Brass stated with a grin.

"You left her there UNPROTECTED!" Grissom yelled.

"No I didn't," Brass casually stated, sipping at his coffee. "I left her with a gun." Getting serious, he added, "Christ, Gil, she's a better shot than half the uniforms on the LVPD. She's trained in weapons." What Brass didn't say was how he'd spent the last months waiting for the daily text messages from Sara, or how he hadn't been able to breathe when she'd been late a few times. He certainly didn't tell Grissom how he'd been popping antacids like candy the past few months, second-guessing himself every day.

"I'm fine, aren't I?" The frenzied giggle snuck out of its own volition, mortifying Sara, and she took a calming breath. "Actually, I'm better than fine. I'm great. I'm wonderful."

"You're home," Brass interjected before her litany could continue.

Cocking her head to the side, she studied Brass, taking in his features – the face that could go from cynical to whimsical and back again in the snap of the fingers, the eyes that could be bored or scare the shit out of a perp, the mouth that gave away so much by what direction the corners lay (up a little was amused, down a little was disappointed). Eventually, she looked away from him to the people she'd come to know over nine years.

However, her gaze always seemed to eventually settle on Grissom, and she couldn't help but smile when he turned his blue eyes to her and simply stared. She knew _his_ looks, as well – so often neutral – but his eyes gave him away. They turned just a slight shade darker when she finally said, "Yeah. I'm home."

Catherine's the one that finally broke the silence amongst the group, when she rolled her eyes, and sarcastically said, "Get a room. Or better yet, finish the statements and _then_ get a room."

"Fine," Grissom said.

Ecklie asked the CSI supervisor, "Do you want to explain how we figured out it was the undersheriff or shall I?"

"Actually," Grissom responded after giving it a moment's thought, "I think Brass should start and Warrick should finish."

Everyone shifted their gaze to Brass, and for a second he felt like squirming under the stares. It actually relaxed him when Catherine gave one of her _Hello, we're waiting_ stares.

"Well, besides the cell phone, we removed a ledger of accounts from Pritchard's home," Brass said, specifically addressing Greg, who just smiled, until surprise crossed the detective's face. "Shit, you knew about the files, too?"

Greg grinned wide and nodded before responding, "I knew a lot more than you think. In the end, nearly the only thing I didn't know was that Warrick was alive."

Shaking his head and not bothering to hold back a quick, mild chuckle, Brass continued, "The undersheriff made a big mistake. It's as simple as that. Grissom's always saying that everyone makes mistakes. Even Jeff McKeen."


	12. Chapter 12

**Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death (Chapter 12)  
Rating:** M  
**Author:** CSIGeekFan  
**Beta:** seattlecsifan – who does a fabulous job of catching my faux pas in nearly every story I write.  
**Words:** 2100 (approximately)  
**Pairings:** Grissom/Sara, Warrick, Team  
**Spoilers:** Season 8  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Seriously. Nothing. I do own a couple seasons of DVDs, but that's about it. Hey, do they sell the characters at the video store? That'd be cool. But until then, I owe nothing.

**X X X**

"What tipped you off that it was McKeen?" Nick asked, after Brass stopped talking and seemed to fall into a well of contemplation.

The detective didn't have a chance to answer, as Greg began his circular explanation. "What should always have a grain of truth?"

Grissom responded with, "A lie. It's always easiest to handle a lie if it's built on a truth."

"Why is that?" Greg asked, rubbing his hands together and getting into his master-of-the-trivia role.

"Because an outright lie can be forgotten and the liar can give themselves away," Sara said.

"What did the undersheriff lie about?" Nick asked.

"Remember that PI Harper?" Brass asked.

"Yeah," Nick replied. "He fell out of the casket – was put there by Pritchard. He's also the PI that Warrick hired."

Brass nodded, and said, "When we looked at his sheet, it showed him 'retiring' early. McKeen told us the charges that got Harper off the PD had been trumped up – that Harper was a clean cop. Then we found out the lie – the evidence Internal Affairs had on Harper at the time had been more solid than McKeen let on." Leaning forward, Brass felt his face begin to flush with anger. The tips of his ears burned, as did his neck, when he sneered, "Once we started looking at Harper, we started hearing about rumors that circulated back in those days."

"How did you find out?"

"Because there are still a few good cops left on the force that remember the corrupt days of the LVPD and when the city got cleaned up," Brass explained, his voice infused with a sense of pride. He thought back to the old man who'd sat across from him in the diner those months ago, and couldn't help but grin.

**X X X**

Brass held the bacon burger about an inch from his watering, open mouth and paused, as the old man sat down across from him. The withered old guy looked to be over seventy, and while annoyed at the intrusion, he was intrigued as the man simply stared.

Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Brass made a show of regretfully putting down his burger and asked, "Can I help you?"

The old man's rail-thin build lent an air of fragility, which Brass didn't buy for a minute. He took one look at the thinning white hair and hard-as-steel eyes before the sturdy, slightly nasally voice replied, "No, but I can help you." The grin that graced the old man's face spoke volumes – it was a face that had seen life, the good and the bad. "Luke Mulrew," the visitor stated, holding out a thin, frail hand. "That's the name. I'm retired LVPD."

Brass felt every muscle tense, but managed to remain neutral when he asked, "And how can you help me, Mr. Mulrew."

"Detective Mulrew, Homocide."

"Detective Mulrew," Brass replied, truly curious at the man who'd interrupted his meal.

"You're workin' the dead CSI case," Mulrew stated. "Back in my day, we didn't have CSIs. Us cops collected evidence the best we could, and we had some people run tests. DNA hadn't been used yet, and a lot of us had a hard time understanding the science stuff when it became mainstream."

"I've been around awhile," Brass responded. "I can understand."

"Maybe," the old man conceded. "Maybe not. It's irrelevant anyway, cause the kid that was shot was still a cop – just a nerd cop. So, I'm thinkin' he deserves a bit of justice."

"Yes, sir, that would be correct," Brass stated, realizing Mulrew was just a retired cop wanting to help. For a moment, Jim wondered if he'd be like the old guy in front of him one day. He wondered if he'd be sitting across from an active homicide cop, offering to help because he felt out of the loop or unwanted. With a slight grimace, he thought, _It's a price you pay for making the job your life._

"Look, sir," Brass continued, "I appreciate the offer, but we've got enough people on this case, and…"

"You don't know anyone like me, young man," Mulrew interjected, making Brass feel like he was a rookie being reprimanded. "I'm a second generation cop in this city. My son's a cop, my grandson's a cop, and my granddaughter's a cop. In fact, my grandkids work beat patrol. You ain't got much better than three generations to describe the relationships and goings-on within the department."

In a flash, Brass saw the potential benefit of sitting down with the Mulrew family. Grinning wide, he said, "You name the time. I'll be there."

**X X X**

"Three generations of pissed off cops," Brass murmured. "Four generations of good cops."

Ecklie, who'd been silent until then, reminisced, "I remember meeting them at one point, and when all is said and done, I think the whole damn family deserves a commendation. God knows they've put up with a lot of shit over the years."

"They work in Vegas," Brass countered. "They knew the risks of being a cop in this town. The fact that they've got a total of four generations going back to early Vegas days and have been straight cops down the line is a miracle, but they know the history."

"And that's why they did what they did," Grissom stated. "It's simple enough – they saw a need for honesty and integrity. They stepped in. I doubt they'd ask for or want a commendation for simply doing their job." Turning to Brass, he quietly asked, "How did you feel about that plaque you received after you got shot?"

Brass shrugged and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, before muttering, "Touché."

"Then why don't you tell about the meeting with the Mulrew clan," Grissom stated.

"Will do, boss," Brass sarcastically replied with a mock salute. His face became thoughtful as he launched into the story. "I waited until I was off the clock before I met up with the Mulrews."

**X X X**

Jack and Erin Mulrew, both twenty four years old, sat on the back porch of the modest middle-class home of Adam Mulrew in East Las Vegas, sipping a beer. Brass could feel their eyes on him the moment he stepped through the sliding glass doors accompanied by Luke Mulrew. All conversation ceased, until Adam Mulrew's wife Elaine stepped forward and held out her hand.

"You must be Detective Brass," she said, smiling warmly, and making Brass really wish he'd listened when Luke had said to dress casual. The suit _was_ casual, and a way of life for the hardened investigator.

"Please, call me Jim."

"At least let me take your coat, Jim," Elaine offered, while the curmudgeonly Luke led the way and made introductions.

From his lawn chair up on the patio, Brass had a good view of everyone in the backyard. The twins were kicked back in chairs on the lawn, arguing mildly, while Jack's wife – sitting next to him – rolled her eyes and muttered, "Football," under her breath. Their parents, Adam and Elaine watched from their perch to the left of Brass.

When he looked to his right, it was fairly obvious the pride the old man felt for the three generations sitting around a typical barbecue.

"I want to thank you for inviting me," Brass eventually said to Adam and Elaine.

Those words captured everyone's attention. Jack's wife and Elaine quietly murmured something about going inside where it would be cool, and the twins made their way to the patio. "We're happy to help," Erin said. If Brass had to describe the two young cops, he'd say they were earnest, with a rare underlying confidence.

"You know about the dead CSI?" Brass asked.

"Yeah. Brown. Worked with him a few times," Jack thoughtfully said. "As a matter-of-fact, I worked a domestic gone bad with Brown before he died. Bastard tried to beat his girlfriend into a coma in Henderson when I was on my graveyard rotation."

"I worked with him a couple of times, too," Erin added. "Decent guy. I got the feeling he was in the job for justice, not pay."

"He had a drug problem," Adam stated, his voice neutral.

"Yeah, he had his flaws. He was human," Brass responded with a shrug. "On a personal note, Rick was a good guy. He got the job done well, and was devoted to his community."

The silence following Brass's statement wasn't particularly uncomfortable, but a contemplative atmosphere permeated the group. For awhile, the Mulrew cops all seemed to consider what they knew and let it stew in their heads for just a few minutes.

Eventually, Jack said, "I wasn't surprised by Pritchard. I'd heard a few rumors, but nothing even remotely concrete."

"Do you know who he might've associated with?" Brass asked, receiving a shake of Jack's head.

"Since Warrick's case is linked to Pritchard, and Pritchard is linked to Gedda and Harper…" Brass started, then paused to thoughtfully form his next question. "What can you tell me about all the players?"

"Gedda is Gedda," Erin stated, taking a swig of her beer. "He was an old-time mobster who hadn't realized that time moved on. Whoever took him out had to know that."

At Brass's questioning look, she grinned and continued, "I worked undercover for Vice awhile back – three weeks. It was a change from speeding tickets and neighborhood watch meetings."

"Okay, what about Harper?" Brass asked, and this time watched Adam frown.

"Prick," the recently retired cop ground out. "Dumb-ass prick."

"Gee, Pop, got an opinion?" Jack asked, reaching into the cooler for another beer.

"What can you tell me about him besides that he's a prick?" Brass asked, unsuccessfully trying to keep the grin from quirking his lips. "What was he like?"

"Lenny Harper left when corruption was on its way out. A lot of cops left in those days, but Lenny was one of the worst," Adam explained. Looking at his father, he continued, "You remember, Pop. He's that prick that used to require 'protection' money be paid by a couple of local stores."

"He did worse than that," interjected Luke, his voice a bit wheezy in the hot afternoon sun. "Harper intimidated witnesses for old time mobsters."

"Is any of this documented?" Brass asked, feeling a spike of adrenaline at getting some authentic information.

"No, but I watched him beat the shit out of a kid that owed a loan shark. The kid was maybe 16, and Harper damn near beat the poor kid to death," Adam stated. More quietly, he added, "I'm not particularly proud of that moment in my life. I didn't step in – all I did was tell him to stop. It was a fuckin' kid."

While Adam stared at the ground, Brass watched Erin kneel behind her father and say, "Pop, sometimes we have to look out for ourselves. Sometimes… if we don't, what good will come of it? We just need to know that at the end of the day, the shit that stinks up a lot of cops doesn't make us stink, too."

It was during Erin's words to her father that something _off_ clicked into place, and Brass said, "Well, fuck me."

Realizing he suddenly had everyone's attention, Brass shook his head. His heart hammered double-time in his chest, and he wondered if he was going to hyperventilate. What Adam Mulgrew talked about directly contrasted Jeff McKeen's own words. When Harper had shown up dead, McKeen had talked about working with him, and how he was a pretty damn good beat cop. How all the charges were trumped up.

McKeen and Harper had been friends back then. Harper had ties to the mob. McKeen had ties to Harper.

"Tell me about Jeff McKeen back in those days," Brass demanded, his gut burning.

**X X X**

"McKeen had made sure to never have direct connections to anyone that could inhibit his political career. I'm sure the bosses he reported to helped him," Brass stated. "Adam gave me a hell of a lot of information regarding McKeen and some rumors."

"It got confirmed with Warrick," Grissom stated, his tone low, his face set heavy with a frown.

When Warrick signed something, Sara nodded her head.

Unexpectedly, Warrick walked in obvious agitation out of the diner, so Sara could tell his story. She understood the impact that regaining his memory had had on the man. After all, she'd been there; while she'd forgiven him long ago, he hadn't forgiven himself. It was a story he hated to hear, and she easily understood why it was nearly impossible for him to tell.

When everyone's gaze eventually shifted from the door back to Sara, she shifted in her seat, and said, "Warrick remembered… everything."


	13. Chapter 13

**Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death (Chapter 13)  
Rating:** M  
**Author:** CSIGeekFan  
**Beta:** seattlecsifan – she rocks as a beta. If any mistakes exist, they're my fault and probably because I decided to tinker with the story a little.  
**Pairings:** Grissom/Sara, Warrick, Team  
**Spoilers:** Season 8  
**Disclaimer:** I own two dogs. They like CSI. My dogs don't own CSI. Neither do I.  
**Summary:** _"Sara, do you still want to marry me?"_

**A/N: **I wanted to point out that in the last chapter, I had them going to Frank's and then magically they were back in Grissom's office. This has been fixed and they are back at Frank's. I apologize for any confusion.

**X X X**

Sara stared at the door as it swung closed behind Warrick. He'd signed, "I can't remember much," and she understood. While in her mind, the night remained vivid, he'd blocked a lot of it out… partly because of the haze in which he'd woken, trying to scream. Partly because of his behavior before he'd calmed.

Feeling the prickle of the team's collective gaze on her skin, Sara reached under the table and grasped Grissom's hand before starting.

Closing her eyes, she let go of the sounds of the diner, ignored the scent of grease and pancakes that wafted through the air, and sent herself back in time several months.

She barely heard her own voice, when she said, "It started with the sound of breaking glass. I grabbed my gun and ran to Warrick's room."

**X X X**

The light switch didn't work.

Warrick's bedroom faced toward the backyard, and thus no light shone in the darkness, except that of the bright moon. Enough leaked down through the window, though – the blinds hung lopsided, broken and swaying to a stop lightly against the windowsill. A chair half hung out the window, and he lay curled in the corner, his hand on his neck while he wept with huffing breath.

"Oh my God," Sara said, shaking at the sight. Rapidly setting the gun on the dresser just inside the door, she rushed to the other side of the room, not realizing broken glass covered the ground until she stepped into it full force in bare feet and began to crumble. Grasping his bed, she hauled herself over, half brushed off her feet and dragged herself in his general direction.

She should've known better to reach out for him, and cursed herself twenty different ways when she touched him and his arm shot out, slamming into her jaw.

"Christ, Warrick. It's me. IT'S ME! SARA! WARRICK!"

It wasn't like she hadn't seen people have flashbacks. The sweat beading on his bare back as he huddled away from her again glistened in the moonlight, and she racked her brain, trying to figure out what to do. Before she could make a move, he turned, grabbed hold of her shoulders and spoke, but no words came out.

"Warrick. Warrick. Warrick," she chanted, until his hands crept around her throat. Her panic suddenly overwhelmed the entire room with the stench of iron, and as he struggled with his own living nightmare, she propelled back into hers. Warrick stood in front of her, but her senses could make out the taste of blood on her tongue. The smell of it hung like a thick cloud in the air. Her throat hurt in ways unimaginable as his fingers compressed against her windpipe, but she couldn't break her grip.

So, it came as a shock when Warrick suddenly crumpled.

No sound but harsh breath could emerge from Warrick's mouth. The ear piercing scream that she let loose, however, could wake the dead in ten states.

"For crying out… SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Terry shouted, as Sara scrambled to get the gun off Warrick's dresser. Trying to keep an eye on her assailant, feeling horrendous amounts of pain shoot through her sliced up feet, and reaching unseeingly for the gun – the mob's night watchman held it up in front of him.

Shaking his head, the dark haired man stood silhouetted in front of the broken window, looking first to his left at Warrick, who lay crumpled near the head of the bed, to his right. Sara finally gave up and kneeled on the ground, her tattered feet unable to support her.

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry when he held up the gun Brass had given her and asked, and with a bored tone, "Is this yours? Because if it is, you really shouldn't leave it laying around."

**X X X**

Everyone stared at Sara, as she calmly explained, "I'm just glad Amanda wasn't home. She had a few days off and went to visit her mother in Los Angeles, so Warrick and I were on our own at the time."

"Back it up, Sidle," Brass stated, very calmly. Too calmly, actually. His tone lowered half an octave when he said, "Let me get this straight. You let the mob get hold of my personal weapon, and you didn't tell me."

"He gave it back," she matter-of-factly replied, suddenly holding up her hand for him to stop when Brass opened his mouth to say more. "Give me a minute, and let me finish it, Jim."

Drawing a deep breath, she pushed away the smell of blood that lingered in her nostrils and replaced it with the scent of cooking food. The sounds of utensils clanging against plates returned, as did the quiet roar of many voices talking, and Sara looked around the diner – shedding the remnants of _that_ particular nightmare.

"Terry's a decent guy," Sara stated. "I'd been living with this constant ache in my stomach, and not really sleeping since we found the first guy, John, parked outside the house. The gun never left my side, and in reality, there is a chance Warrick could have unknowingly hurt me badly. As it was…"

Sara left off and tentatively smiled at Warrick, who had quietly approached the table. Nodding her head at her friend, she continued, "As it was, Terry took care of the problem, and I just had a few bruises."

Warrick signed and Sara interpreted, "That whole night is a haze, but I vaguely remember being shot in the neck again. I lashed out at someone outside my window, and threw the chair. I thought Sara was McKeen."

He looked away for a few moments, until Grissom gruffly said, "Take a seat, Warrick."

As he slipped into his chair, Warrick signed, "I thought Sara was McKeen, and if it hadn't been for the mob guys sitting outside our house, I could've killed her."

Grissom stared at Sara's neck, irrationally trying to find traces of the bruises. Another punch had slammed him as she spoke, because she'd never told him this part before – just that Warrick remembered. When Sara looked in his eyes, he sincerely hoped she could see what that they begged, _Please no more revelations today. I don't think I can take much more of this,_ before he averted his gaze to next examine her jaw. He'd have to go over her feet later, alone, when he could touch the skin that had been cut.

"You couldn't have done anything, Gil," she said for his ears only. The hand she held gripped tight, and he gave her a half-hearted grin meant to relieve the anxiety on her face and taking form as a massive knot on the back of his neck.

Finally breaking his gaze from hers, Grissom looked back and forth between Brass and Warrick when he asked, "Can we continue this tomorrow?"

Within minutes, the entire group dispersed.

It was while walking to their car that Grissom said, "So many times we could've lost _this_." He waved a hand between them. Stopping, he gripped her upper arm and turned her to face him, as the hot day melted away into a single question.

"Sara, do you still want to marry me?"

The nerves weren't evident this time around – in either of them – as he asked. Her only question, never voiced, had always been whether or not he was sure he wanted to take on her problems. When he used his finger under her chin to turn her face and stare into her eyes, she studied the cerulean depths of his own and found her answer.

With a grin, she asked, "How about now?"

Which was how, an hour later, they found themselves in front of a minister, repeating age-old words, making age-old promises, and ending it with a simplistic kiss. Even on their wedding day, public affection remained rare. Giddily and shyly, they held hands like teenagers on their first date, only tentatively touching, until they stepped through the front door of their home.

The mood remained, as they dutifully took care of walking Hank, making dinner, and sneaking glances at the plain, thin gold bands on the fourth fingers of their left hands.

It wasn't until the dishes had been cleared and he stood behind her, his arms around her waist, that Grissom nuzzled her ear, and whispered, "I love you, Sara."

Turning in his arms, she let herself sink into the taste of the cherry pie they'd eaten for desert – one of his favorites. The smell of his skin – the aftershave having worn off – lent a richness to the taste, and the moan escaped whether she wanted it to or not.

In reality, he reveled in it, and gladly held onto her as he led them to their bedroom.


	14. Chapter 14

**Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death (Chapter 14)  
Rating:** M  
**Author:** CSIGeekFan  
**Beta:** My thanks once again to Seattlecsifan for always finding my inconsistencies and mistakes. You are the best!  
**Pairings:** Grissom/Sara, Warrick, Team  
**Spoilers:** Season 8  
**Disclaimer:** I own two dogs. They like CSI. My dogs don't own CSI. Neither do I.  
**Summary:** _As she fingered the thin plain gold, she watched Grissom sit up, and sat up herself when he said, "Good morning. Do you feel any different?"_

**X X X**

"WOOF!"

Grissom groggily tipped his head to listen. Sitting up, the haziness cleared just enough for him to realize his clothes lay neatly in the laundry, and his pajamas still remained folded over the chair; and he grinned…lazily, in that loose muscle kind of way that spoke of smug satisfaction.

She laid face down, drooling into her pillow, and he couldn't help but stare at the lines of her back. The shoulder muscles, well defined just a year ago, had softened without the constant use on the job. He couldn't decide which he preferred best – watching the sensual muscle move under the tight skin or the fleshier, seductive curves she'd developed.

"WOOF!"

"Shhh, Hank. Don't wake her up," Grissom loudly whispered, wincing when he heard her voice.

"'at's 'kay. I'm awake now."

Sara groaned, turned her head, and failed trying to blow stray brunette strands out of her eyes. She couldn't argue with the sight in front of her, as she luckily received a beautiful view of her husband's chest. Most wouldn't consider a middle-aged man with a little extra around the middle much of a catch, but she could only whisper, "Good morning," and take stock. Ten toes, two legs, two arms, ten fingers. One wedding band.

As she fingered the thin plain gold, she watched Grissom sit up, and sat up herself when he said, "Good morning. Do you feel any different?"

"Well, I don't believe I'll be wearing heels and pearls while I cook, if that's what you mean," she replied, sarcasm dripping with every word.

Chuckling, Grissom sat up against the pillows, and she awkwardly crawled into his lap. Typically, morning breath would prevent either from nuzzling too intimately; normally they took care of at least the minimal ablutions. However, when he pulled her to him, closed his eyes, and inhaled the scent of fresh sex on the sheets surrounding them, he kissed her temple.

The feel of his lips sent shivers, and she played coy when he pulled her in tight. "I'm married," she whispered, and watched him pull away and stare into her eyes.

Laughter reached his and they sparked bright. "I know. I was there, remember?"

The kiss was meant to lead into some perfect morning sex for the couple, until _Tap tap tap tap tap, _broke through Sara's hazy senses and she put her hands on Grissom's chest and pushed away from him a few inches. Though she listened intently, she almost missed the tapping once again, as he nibbled on her earlobe.

Laughing, she sat up higher, naked and grinning from ear to ear.

_Thump, thump, thump_,replaced the tapping.

"Honey, I don't think they're leaving," she resignedly whispered when he tilted his head back against the wall behind him and stared up at the ceiling.

Her husky laugh forced the humor in him to override his frustration at the interruption, and he reached for his pajama bottoms and t-shirt. By the time he slid into his slippers, whoever stood on his doorstep had pounded several more times.

"I'M COMING!" Grissom yelled, climbing the stairs from the kitchen.

While it mildly surprised him to find Warrick standing on his doorstep, it didn't seem to surprise Sara at all, as she smiled and waved her very tired looking friend inside. "Please," she said, "come in."

Grissom began to turn away, but was stopped with Warrick's hand on his harm. When he looked into the dark eyes of the former CSI, Grissom found fatigue, pain, and… wariness. He never broke eye contact with Warrick, when he asked, "Sara? Can you get us some coffee?"

Flicking his gaze to his… wife… Grissom couldn't help the flutter in his stomach and hid a grin before leading Warrick into the living room, and gesturing for him to take a seat.

Grissom heard the faucet turn on in the kitchen, and faced Warrick who sat on the couch. He barely opened his mouth before Warrick's hands started moving.

"She forgives me. Sara tells me she forgives me."

The CSI supervisor could smell the thin odor of coffee just beginning to brew float up from the kitchen. Soon, that rich scent would become pungent, spreading the smell throughout their home, and he inhaled deeply.

Glancing around, he sadly looked at _things_ here and there – artwork, pottery, books, journals… stuff. He felt the simple gold band, just slightly wider than the one she wore, and couldn't help but think, _I'm carrying the only thing for which I really give a damn._

As he lifted his head to look at Warrick again, Grissom said, "She's fairly amazing. Most people have a tendency to learn to mistrust others when they've been hurt enough. Over and over, she's been hurt and betrayed. Again and again, she's forgiven the people around her."

When Grissom looked into Warrick's eyes, he saw recognition, and Grissom said, "I know you've learned a lot about her – about where she comes from, what she's learned to live with. Now maybe you understand why she left, and why I let her."

He would've continued speaking, but Warrick pulled out a notebook, realizing he was too tired and overwhelmed to be able to sign effectively.

_I've learned a lot about both of you. And I can't possibly express how sorry I am for blaming you for her leaving. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right. You're right. I know much more and I understand much more than before. In the end it wasn't my business, and I certainly should never have judged you. You've stood up for me when so many would have just let me go._

_Thank you._

As he stared at the paper in his hand, Grissom vaguely heard the sound of Sara's soft footfalls on the staircase, and the tapping of ceramic cups lightly knocking against one another.

Sara set a cup in front of each man, and watched as Warrick began to pick at the fingernail on his thumb, while Grissom's brow creased as he squinted to read. Rolling her eyes, she reached into a drawer, pulled out one of many pairs of reading glasses always hidden around the condo, and waved them in front of his face.

"Are you okay?" Sara asked Warrick, noting the depth of the circles under his eyes.

With a weary sigh, he picked up his cup, gave a halfhearted grin and sipped, just in time to hear a knock on the door.

After frowning in Sara's general direction, Grissom crossed to open the door, and Warrick shifted from his position on the couch to an arm chair facing his friend. Placing his cup carefully on the end table, he signed, "Thank you."

Both were surprised to hear Nick's and Catherine's voices, and they turned to watch a harried-looking Grissom return to the sitting area. Spying the open spot near Sara, he unceremoniously plunked down in the center of the couch and propped his feet up on the coffee table.

"If you want something to drink, the kitchen's downstairs," Grissom grumbled.

"Sorry, man. We didn't mean to interrupt, but when I woke up Warrick was gone. I got worried, so I called Cath…" Nick started to explain, only to be cut off by Grissom.

"So you decided it would be a good idea to arrive at your boss's house _without_ calling at five o'clock in evening?" Grissom asked, trying to tone down the irritation in his voice.

"Grissom, we were worried. Besides, it wouldn't be the first time you got woken up in the middle of the night," Catherine responded, blowing off the annoyance in Grissom's voice and particularly obvious in his crossed arms and frown.

"Actually, we had plans," Grissom stated.

Sara congratulated herself over the fact her head hadn't whipped around or that her jaw dropped open at his words. _We had plans?_ she mused.

"Oh," seemed to be the only appropriate reaction Catherine could come up with, given the fact that the two workaholics on the couch never worried about their plans being interrupted before. Grissom's response simply took the wind out of her sails and she awkwardly said, "Then I'm sorry?" She hadn't meant to make the statement into a question, but really… who could blame the blonde woman for being unsure of how to respond to the situation.

"Sorry, Grissom," Nick said, grinning. "I hope we didn't screw it up your evening too bad."

Sara, meanwhile, had watched every word force a wince out of Warrick. Leaning toward him, she patted his knee, and murmured, "Don't worry about it. It's fine you came over."

"You know, guys, I think we're gonna get goin'," Nick drawled, pointedly looking at Warrick and Catherine, as he stood.

At the front door, the trio stepped out and turned to bid Sara and Grissom good night. Two things happened simultaneously. Warrick noticed the ring on Sara's finger, and Grissom said, "By the way, Sara and I got married. I thought maybe we could go out and have a drink or something after work."

While Sara watched Catherine's mouth gape open, she stifled a laugh, and gently swung the door closed.

Her _husband_ was already halfway down the stairs, whistling softly, when she followed.

_Yeah, I can get used to this,_ she thought, following him to the bedroom.

**X X X**

Waking at eight o'clock that night, Sara languidly stretched and watched Grissom dress.

"You know we're going to catch hell tonight, considering we pretty much locked Catherine out of our house, yelling through the door," she said.

He couldn't help but grin in response.

As she rolled out of bed and stretched, he picked a shirt out of the closet, and pulled it over his head. He crouched down to select a pair of shoes to go with the navy blue slacks and said, "You know, I don't care if we get the Spanish Inquisition. I'm just glad we did it. The marrying part, that is." He looked over his shoulder and smirked, "And maybe the leaving her shouting at our door part, too."

"Me, too," Sara said, chuckling a little in giddiness. Did she believe in marriage? Yeah. Did she believe in the trappings of weddings? No. She simply never saw the point of spending a lot of money to throw a party around making a promise, when the promise itself should be the focus – not the drinks, food, flowers, and rituals.

Caught up in thought, Sara didn't realize Grissom had moved to stand behind her. With his hands on her shoulders, he turned her around to face him, pulled her into a hug, and she felt the light mood vanish instantly, to be replaced by something heavier… more tentative. Maybe a little more… anxious.

"I want to move on with my life, Sara," he said, gripping her tighter, and burying his face in her hair. Dropping his shoulders, he breathed in the jasmine of her shampoo, and the clean standard soap she ritually used on her skin. The combination, as always, intoxicated him, and he kissed her cheek.

"I want to move on with _our_ life," he stated.

**X X X**

Arriving only an hour early thwarted their plan of hiding in Grissom's office; Catherine ambushed Sara and Grissom walking through the door. She was seated behind his desk, a thoughtful expression on her face.

"You know, I always knew it was serious after you left, Sara," Catherine said, staring at them as they attempted to maintain a detached demeanor. "Grissom fell apart. For awhile he wasn't doing well, and he refused to go after you."

Catherine paused, her facial expression and body language indicated the blond still had more to say. When she stood, relinquishing the CSI supervisor's chair, she added, "We should have all seen it. Friend from San Francisco, my ass."

Sara tensed at the words. She'd always feared other people catching onto her relationship with Grissom. That familiar clenching of the stomach made her shoulders tense and her back to stiffen until ramrod straight.

"Yeah, Catherine. Friend. He and I have been friends for a long time, and that's how he introduced me." Stepping forward, the brunette stood nose-to-nose with the senior CSI and quietly said, "You might want to keep in mind that when Gil and I met, he wasn't a supervisor. He was a guy giving a lecture and I was there as part of my annual training requirement. When we met, he wasn't my superior in any way, shape, or form. So, when he asked me to come here, I did." By the time Sara finished speaking, it felt as if every muscle vibrated with raw energy, and she jumped at the feel of his hand on her shoulder.

"I didn't mean that the way it sounded, Sara," Catherine quietly replied. "I just meant there was obviously something between you back then. He's always… looked at you different." Catherine purposely looked at Grissom, standing just a couple of feet behind Sara, when she added, "I think we've all known it was there, but… I guess I never realized how vital it's become for you."

Sara stiffened slightly when Catherine suddenly hugged her, whispered, "Congratulations," and rapidly let go.

Feeling a little dazed, for the first time Sara blushed. A hesitant smile crossed her face when she replied, "Thanks."

As quickly as Catherine departed, Brass arrived, trying to decide whether to laugh, yell, or sigh. Of course the office grapevine had been buzzing all morning. In the end, he decided on a sigh. "So, you got married."

Turning to Sara, he asked, "Are you sure you can put up with him?"

She surprised him with a quick hug and a whispered, "I can't imagine _not_ putting up with him." Brass had figured on no response at all, as the brunette in front of him habitually deflected personal questions.

"Good, then we can get on to reason number two for my visit." With a wave of his hand, Brass indicated for everyone to take a seat. While Grissom sat at his desk, Sara perched in her usual spot – to his left and slightly behind him, and Brass took the chair directly across from Grissom.

Staring intently at Sara, Brass let the frown that subtly said _'I'm disappointed in you'_ grace his features. The bland chemical smell that usually took up residence in Grissom's office faded away, as did the glaring light above. As the detective stared, everything faded, and his quietly asked question echoed through the room. "Why didn't you tell me about the contact you had with the mob in California, Sara?"

Meanwhile, Sara squirmed in her seat, feeling like a naughty child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Opening her mouth, she drew breath, and found no words forthcoming.

Grissom, on the other hand, found the entire proceeding morbidly fascinating – like a twisted psychological experiment.

"Look, Jim, I didn't want you to worry. You had more than enough to worr--"

"That's a fucking excuse, and we both know it," Brass replied so damn calmly and… nonchalantly, Sara felt a shiver slide down her spine.

No sooner had those words escaped than Brass's cell phone rang. Checking the caller ID, he stood, stared at Sara, his face now red with anger, and seethed, "I suggest you get your story straight. I'm not done with you."

With that, he flipped open his phone, barked, "Brass," and stormed out of Grissom's office.

However, Sara knew she wasn't in the clear just yet. Shifting, she turned to face Grissom, while he simply stared at her contemplatively. His lack of response made her more nervous than if he were to yell, and as time ticked by ever-so-slowly, she found herself shifting in her chair – uncrossing and re-crossing her legs.

"He's right," Grissom quietly stated, "this isn't done by far. I need those answers, too."


	15. Chapter 15

**Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death (Chapter 15)  
Rating:** M  
**Author:** CSIGeekFan  
**Beta:** seattlecsifan… thank you, as usual, for catching the wonky stuff.  
**Pairings:** Grissom/Sara, Warrick, Team  
**Spoilers:** Season 8  
**Disclaimer:** Oh, how I wish I owned CSI. Alas, I don't, and I mean no harm. I'm just having fun, and providing a little enjoyment to those of us addicted to CSI.  
**Summary:** _'It had taken her only half an hour to make an important discovery. She simply didn't find forensic science all that fascinating anymore; and she felt stunned at the revelation.'_

**X X X**

Sara lay sprawled on the government-issue couch in Grissom's office and wished yet again she hadn't acclimated so well to daylight hours. After years of living like a vampire, she found herself enjoying the warm rays of the sun, and reveling in the ability to clearly see the world around her, without shadows obscuring her vision.

Unfortunately, telling Grissom she'd wait for his return from Brass's crime scene might have been a miscalculation on her part. At odds with what to do, she'd just spent the last hour in his office alone, waging war on boredom.

Sara had regaled herself by reading through forensic and entomology journals. It had taken her only half an hour to make an important discovery. She simply didn't find forensic science all that fascinating anymore; and she felt stunned at the revelation. Sometime during the past year, she'd lost her desire or need to prove herself in a violent job that had long defined her world.

Rolling this epiphany around her head, she paced the office, frowning. It had taken her all this time, as well as leaving Vegas, to permanently bid goodbye to forensics.

It took about two minutes to have her stomach unclenching and a soft smile gracing her face.

"What's got you in a good mood?" Greg asked from the doorway, where he'd stood, watching the brunette.

Stepping inside, he closed the door with a soft and definite click, and leaned back against it. _He looks so much older,_ she thought, studying his face. _God, when did he grow up like this?_ Overlaying the standard Sanders charm, a layer of cynicism lay on his skin. His eyes looked so much harder, when she looked deep.

"I've missed you, Greg."

Casually sauntering to the uncomfortable couch, Greg plopped down and studied Sara. He'd missed her as well, although he had no intention of telling her… just yet. To his mind, she needed a bit of time to chew on the fact that she'd abandoned him. Them. The team. So instead, he stared at her, surprised at the depths of calm he found, not so much in her exterior, but apparent in her eyes. He wondered if perhaps fate or stupidity on his part had them exchanging their views of the world – had him taking on her cynical outlook, washed over with a hopeful layer of optimism.

"Don't care too much, Greg," she warned, sitting quietly beside him, gripping his hand and linking her fingers with his. "Don't let this eat at you. Write your book, and live a glorious life."

"Well, damn it all," Greg muttered, at the sudden surge of tears that originated at the same time as the tightening of his chest; and as heat surged up his neck and cheeks from too much emotion. "Goddamn you, I was planning on staying pissed off on at least _some_ level until you groveled."

Seeing the sheen over his eyes, Sara leaned her cheek against his neck, as their hands disconnected and he wrapped his arms around her.

"You're the best fucking friend I ever had, you know," he stated.

"Minus the fucking part," she retorted, and patted him roughly on the back when he choked on his own laughter. Returning the affection and wrapping her arms around him, Sara buried his face and said, "You've been the best, Greggo. The best."

"Crap. We've gone sentimental," Greg said, unwrapping his arms as the pressure in his chest eased. Standing, he helped Sara to her feet. Studying her, he said, "You don't have to stick around, y'know. From the sounds of it, Grissom's got a long night ahead of him."

"And I'll stick," Sara responded, escorting Greg to the door. "I'll stick."

**X X X**

By the time Grissom returned to the office, he felt the scum of the job in every crevice of his body and soul. Another murder, accompanied by a mournful suicide, as evidenced with the note left by the husband, and the gun shot residue covering his blood splattered shirt.

Grunting, Grissom hoisted his case onto an evidence table, and opened the snaps. Reaching inside, he grabbed the clipboard with the evidence log taken on-site.

"Hey Gris," Nick said, wandering in behind his boss, watching the older man's sagging shoulders roll around before being pulled back, as if the CSI supervisor had decided he _could_ make it through the rest of processing. "You look tired, man."

"I _am_ tired, Nick," Grissom stated, opening a secure locker and stashing the bags of evidence within.

Taken aback, the Texan stared at his supervisor with wide eyes. Nick remembered on a couple of occasions he'd complained about the job, the hours, the shift, etc… and been told to stop whining by his boss.

As Grissom made his way to exit the room, he passed by Nick, who grabbed his boss's arm.

"Look, Grissom, I know you said something about drinks, but…"

"No," Grissom replied, smiling tiredly. "I think I could really use a drink right now."

**X X X**

It was nearing noon as Sara and Grissom made their way into a bar, often patronized by cops and lawyers, not far from the crime lab. Finding their party had pushed together a couple of tables, Sara chuckled, grabbed her… _husband's_ hand, and pulled him forward on a surge of false adrenaline. She'd learned an unfortunate lesson the previous night – doing nothing took up nearly as much energy as working a case, and thus she _knew_ her eyes were as smudged as his.

"Come on, hon," she said, smiling at Grissom, and watching him duck his head, all the while keeping his expression the same neutral.

"Yes, dear," he replied, as they moved closer to their target, and eyed the audience. Catherine, Brass, and Ecklie sat together on one side of a table, with Al, Greg and Warrick across from them. At the attached table, Nick held the hand of Stephanie, who spotted Grissom and Sara first, and leaned into the Texan to murmur something that had Nick waving.

"_A_ drink," Grissom murmured. "A single drink, and we head home."

Sitting across from Nick and Stephanie, Sara ended up next to Greg, who nudged her and gave her a lascivious wink before morosely muttering, "Can't hit on you anymore. Bummer."

The snorted laugh barked out of Grissom, surprising even him, and he wondered when he'd become so punchy. _God, it's been a long day,_ he thought. _Long, and typical, and tiring_.

As the waitress paused to take their order, everyone made small talk, until Catherine asked Warrick, "Were you okay after that night? The night you remembered?"

As one, both Sara and Warrick leaned back in their chairs and looked at each other from behind Greg's back. A few hand gestures later, Sara grinned wide at her friend, laughed quickly, and caught the questioning glances around the table table.

"No, that was the _start_ of his nightmares." She ruefully glanced at Grissom when she added, "No sooner do my flashbacks end than his begin. Go figure."

"He has nightmares, but nothing like a few months ago," Sara said. "We talk about them."

Only Grissom caught on when Warrick signed something close to, "I show you mine. You show me yours." The older man wasn't sure whether to laugh, cry, or roll his eyes, so he opted for typical silence, instead.

Sara, on the other hand, rolled her eyes, before continuing. "Of course, the fact that I turned him onto a discreet psychologist, who specializes in treating post traumatic stress disorder helped. The fact that the psychologist is an old college friend, who willingly made house calls, helped too."

Sara paused for a moment, and took the opportunity to look at Warrick for the okay to continue. When he nodded and gave her a pained grin, she sighed and added, "He only got violent a couple of times, but I went in forewarned and forearmed, so to speak. After that first round, our wardens didn't come charging in."

The reference to the mob guards outside the house had Grissom's stomach clenching, and Brass frowning fiercely. As the detective's mouth opened, Grissom held up a hand, and signaled the approaching waitress to go ahead and serve.

"No, Jim. Not right now. I'm too tired to want to hear this, and I've got a bad feeling I'm going to need to hear about this with all my faculties at top notch," Grissom stated. "Save the interrogation for later."

Disrupting the path of the conversation entirely, Stephanie nudged Nick who raised his glass and said, "To Grissom and Sara. Congratulations, and the best in your marriage."

As words of congratulations flowed, the mood lifted, and the burning in Grissom's eyes sunk deep. He'd reached that plane of consciousness, where he was so groggy he didn't particularly feel much, but at the same time felt more relaxed. He didn't often achieve this particular level of grogginess, except when he took cold medicine, and entered loopy land.

Finally relaxed, Grissom even smiled and felt himself flush a bit under the attention; which was why he didn't notice when an Assistant District Attorney walk up behind him and Sara.

As the table shushed, Nick said, "Grissom, I've think you've got company."

Turning in his chair, Grissom gave the man a questioning glance. The young attorney, barely out of law school, said, "Dr. Grissom." When Sara glanced his way, he nodded, "Miss Sidle."

"Can we help you?" Sara asked, turning to sit sideways in her seat and address nervous-looking attorney.

"Yeah. I was actually preparing a letter for you today," he stated. "It regards Natalie Davis, and the plea agreement we've reached."

Everything at the table came to a shuttering stop. All noise evaporated around Sara and Grissom, until she took a quivering breath, exhaled long, watched his jaw clench and unclench, and finally broke the tension by sardonically saying, "Well, life just can't stop kicking us for five minute."


	16. Chapter 16

**Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death (Chapter 16)  
Rating:** M  
**Author:** CSIGeekFan  
**Beta:** seattlecsifan – I bow to you. You completely rock as a beta and this story would truly suck without your help.  
**Pairings:** Grissom/Sara, Warrick, Team  
**Spoilers:** Season 8  
**Disclaimer:** I had a dreamed I owned CSI. Then I woke up and realized I didn't. Bummer.  
**Summary:** _'Grissom could only stare. The weight slowly descended back on his chest, and he felt so damn tired… of the crime, of Vegas, of everything.'_

**X X X**

Grissom pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, very slowly and methodically controlling his breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

He kept up this particular pattern until Sara put her hand on his knee, squeezed, and finally stood. Finding herself toe-to-toe with a young, nervous-looking ADA, whose Adam's apple spastically bobbed, she let out a sigh and smiled.

"My name's Bryce, ma'am. Bryce Donovan," he stated. "I saw the group of you over here, and I just wanted to tell you… Natalie Davis is lucid. She came out of her psychotic state about a week ago. We will be committing her to the psychiatric hospital for violent offenders for the rest of her life."

Sara let his words sink in, weighing each carefully, and then weighing the personal price she paid. In the end, though, she realized that her own price didn't even compare to all those murdered by the _Miniature Killer_.

"All right," she said, and watched Donovan blink rapidly in relief.

"Oh. Okay. Good," he stammered. Backing away, he awkwardly waved at the group gathered, and finally turned to leave.

Grissom could only stare. The weight slowly descended back on his chest, and he felt so damn tired… of the crime, of Vegas, of everything. His heart was hammering like a bass drum, and he could hear the blood pumping up through his ears. _Goddamn it, is there any chance we can get a break?_ he asked himself. That very second, more than anything, he wanted to go home and fall asleep with his wife. God knows he'd waited long enough to be able to say that to himself. Too long.

Turning back to her seat, Sara caught a glimpse of Grissom's pinched expression. Running her hand up his arm, she leaned in and kissed his cheek before reading his mind and whispering, "Let's go home."

**X X X**

Grissom didn't call in sick. As he slept on, Sara rose and placed the call to Brass, asking him to bring Warrick to the townhouse. She then let Ecklie know that Grissom would be a few hours late.

Voices coming from the kitchen finally woke Grissom, and he groggily stood. Heading toward the low murmurs and the thick scent of coffee wafting throughout the condo, he shuffled into the kitchen and tried not to feel uncomfortable when Brass and Warrick turned to stare at him.

"What?" he asked, his voice still thick from sleep. Frowning, his brain tried to wrap around what could possibly be happening, because it all seemed out of place – the people, the time. Something just wasn't right. Finally, something slid into place and he asked, "Why is everyone here?"

"I asked Jim and Rick to come over," Sara murmured, standing up and meeting him part way across the kitchen. "I know the two of you have questions, and I want to get them answered."

After a hug, where she whispered, "Go get ready and have some coffee," Grissom turned and made his way to the bedroom, unsure of whether to be happy or upset. Weighing his options during his daily ablutions, he landed squarely on undecided as he grabbed a pair of shoes and walked into the kitchen. At the sound of laughter, he paused, and felt something heavy lift just a fraction.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," Brass snickered. "Sara was just telling me about when the two of you first met." Handing over a piping hot cup to the CSI, Brass winked and added, "You sly dog."

As his eyebrows shot straight up, Grissom gave Sara a half-grin and tried not to feel like that awkward guy who always felt tongue tied around a girl – especially _his_ girl. So instead, he stared at her, trying to will her to develop a sudden case of telepathy, and thanking God she knew him well enough to understand how he felt.

All the while, Brass leaned back and watched something tangible spark and fly between the couple in front of him. Perched on a stool at the counter, the detective marveled at the blatant electricity flowing between them and wondered if the couple could feel the crackling on their skin, because Brass could; and the detective felt fairly certain Warrick could as well.

Meanwhile, Warrick could feel his face flush. _Why do I always feel like I'm watching a rare piece of erotica when those two look at each other,_ he mused, and **loudly** coughed.

With a small nod, Sara understood the part she had to play – not in a game, but in a sort of dance or a play. It amused her and Grissom that others didn't see the world in the same manner as they. That life scripted itself, but still it remained a script; and that the more actors involved, the more complex the roles. The two of them craved simplicity, as if they starved for a feast of it. Yet they surrounded themselves with actors.

Topping off his cup of coffee, Grissom gestured up the staircase to the living room and murmured, "Please. Let's at least be comfortable… or as comfortable as the topic will allow."

Eventually settled, Warrick blew out a long breath and waited.

Part of the psychological help he'd received, and would continued to receive, consisted of breathing patterns to assist in controlling the anger. When it bubbled into a rage, he performed deep breathing exercises, as he did now.

Sara watched Warrick's face flush, as his chest and stomach expanded. Repeatedly, he drew breath, until the tell-tale slumping of his shoulders and the whoosh of his breath hissed through the air. Her own tension dissipated, and she smiled at a man she'd once considered a massive pain in the ass, and Grissom's favorite. Time had changed both him and her. When she reached out to wrap her hand around the back of his neck – a gesture meant to comfort - she felt the sweat gliding down the nape, raising the hairs along the way, and she used her fingers to rub away the moisture.

"You've gotten considerably better about it," she murmured. "Yeah. You're controlling it better."

The other occupants could be damned as far as Warrick was concerned. With anger diminished, a depressed, morose mood settled over him, and he had no desire to explain or have Sara explain his mood. His therapy. His problems. His… everything.

Quietly, Jim observed Warrick's shift in mood. While Sara moved to sit next to Grissom on the couch, Brass observed the ritual of forced relaxation, while Warrick rolled his head and shoulders, giving the impression of heaving away a stifling shadow. When Warrick looked up and met Jim's eyes, the detective simply stared unblinking, until the former CSI smiled and relaxed into the arm chair.

As everyone settled, Grissom watched with hooded eyes, until Sara finally said, "So. The mob. California."

Blowing out a long breath, Sara snuggled in deeper, leaned away from Grissom so she could face him as she spoke, and said, "The day after Warrick's first flashback, I found out more about why our guards were there."

**X X X**

Dawn broke in that clear, humid after-a-storm way. The smells seemed foreign as the layers of smog were swept from the area. Instead, all that was green and living wafted the scent of muggy freshness; but rather than feeling oppressive, it lifted the hopes for a brand new start.

Sara woke up with the gun in her lap, sitting in the chair next to the front door. On the living room couch, Warrick lay on his stomach, with one hand and one leg hanging down to the floor. Inhaling deep, she drew in the warm moisture of a new day, and peeked out the side window to the front of the house.

The car was gone.

After shifting the blanket over Warrick's shoulders, Sara made her way to the bedroom, shucked on some sweats and a t-shirt, and headed to the kitchen to kick-start the coffee maker. As the rich smell filled the air, she grabbed a yogurt and went back out to the front porch. From her perch on the swing, she had a fantastic view of all the lush flowers in bloom.

And about a block away was the car.

With her pulse pounding thunderously, Sara came to a decision. She'd had enough of constantly being under someone else's watch – of never having any single _fucking_ bit of control over her _own fucking life_.

_Goddamn it, I won't do this anymore, _raced through her mind as she took that first murderously angry step.

Stomping down the porch, she marched onward, not feeling any particular sense of panic. Even knowing she was bent on facing possible – hell, probable – killers, she should have probably felt at least _some_ trepidation, but in that particular instant, she could really care less.

Slamming her hand onto the car, Sara glared into the windshield. Pointing, she shouted, "You. Out." It came out as a growl, her voice nearly rumbling when she ground out, "Now."

When the man that reminded Sara so much of Nick languorously slid out of the car, Sara involuntarily stepped back and waited for him to shut his door. Which he did so. Mildly.

"If you plan on abusing my car, I'm going to have to restrain you, Ms. Sidle," John soberly stated.

"You think?" she growled in response, just a little too pissed off to care. Slamming her hand onto his hood one more time, she glared the dare straight into his eyes.

The tall man, about her age, slid forward so fast, it was a blur of movement; it took only an instant for John to have her pinned to the hood of her car. For the first time since stomping her way down to the car, the adrenaline dissipated, and she felt real tendrils of fear curling up her spine and giving her shivers. A patina of sweat formed on her forehead, and she found her heart thundering hard in her chest.

In utter fear.

How a man who always seemed so completely neutral in tone, stance, and demeanor could become so menacing in the blink of an eye just dumbfounded her. Suddenly, she couldn't breathe, and she just listened as he spoke.

Very quietly, a snarling quality to his voice, John put his mouth directly up to her ear and whispered, "We're only here because our boss wants us here. Playing babysitter to some bitch and a half-dead cop isn't my idea of fun, sister."

The entire time he spoke, Sara felt her nerve endings beginning to shake; and when he finally let go and moved back, she nodded and said, "Yeah." After clearing her voice, she added, "Yeah. I guess it would suck to be a babysitter."

As rapidly as his eyes had gone cold and dark, they were back to the warmer brown. As she backed away, John held up a hand and said, "Wait. Just wait." After releasing a long breath, he added, "Look, just wait."

Moving to stand several feet away from John, Sara leaned her knee against the front bumper, and said, "If you think _you're_ tired of this, imagine how _we_ feel." Every ounce of energy seeped out of her when she finally said, "I just want some answers."

**X X X**

"So, we talked for about ten minutes," Sara said. "I got some answers, and I finally understood."

"Why didn't you say anything?" Brass asked. "You could have talked to me."

"Actually, I couldn't," Sara murmured, tucking her feet up under herself and tossing a throw blanket from the back of the couch over her knees. When Grissom reached a hand under the blanket to rub her knee, she sighed, "How was I supposed to tell you that they were there to make sure their only material witness stayed alive? That their boss could care less who we were; that he just wanted to know who had killed his source and interrupted his pipeline of income."

Frowning, Sara added, "There's a lot of pissed off people who want McKeen to pay, and _we_ are only a few of them."


	17. Chapter 17

**Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death (Chapter 17)  
Rating:** M  
**Author:** CSIGeekFan  
**Beta:** Once again, seattlecsifan has done a fantastic time keeping me on the straight and narrow.  
**Pairings:** Grissom/Sara, Warrick, Team  
**Spoilers:** Season 8  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own it CSI, although I like to play with them.

**X X X**

Later that night, Brass gave a jaunty salute, said, "I'll see you after shift," and headed to report to PD.

A few minutes later, Warrick rolled his eyes, picked up his coffee cup, and headed down the stairs to the kitchen for a refill.

Alone, Sara stepped forward and zipped up Grissom's jacket, smiling at the laughter in his eyes. On the side table next to the couch lay a journal she knew he wanted to take into work, which she handed him with a murmured, "Have a good day at the office, honey."

In a maneuver Ward Cleaver _never_ would have considered, he snaked a hand around her waist, pulled her to him, and captured her lips.

Unfortunately, to Sara's mind, no sooner had the plundering started, than her husband let go, leaving her breathing hard. It wasn't until that pleasant hum in her head and skittering across her nerves eased that she realized his chest was moving just as rapidly; and she leaned, arching her neck, to feel that warm breath against her skin.

Grissom loved to see her skin flushed with excitement. It didn't matter to him what caused her eyes to glow and her pulse to beat hard; at times it was solving the puzzle, and at others it was a simple touch. Slowly, he stroked his hand down her cheek, noting the softness of the supple skin, and wished he could just stay there.

"I have to go," he murmured, and with a look of regret was gone.

Closing the door, Sara leaned against it a moment, noted the time, and heard Warrick shuffling down in the kitchen. "How about I make us something to eat?" she asked.

She had barely stepped off the last stair onto the polished concrete of the kitchen before Warrick's hands started moving.

"I need to get out of Nick's house."

Concerned, Sara scooted a barstool next to his and sat facing her friend. "You know, if you need a place to stay, Gil's study has a Murphy bed. You can always stay here."

Holding up a hand, Warrick explained, "No, Sara. It's not that." Blowing out a breath, he closed his eyes, and finally continued, "Before I was shot… I wasn't right." Frustrated at not being able to find _just the right_ words, he ran his hand over his head and stood. "I'd screwed up my life. My marriage was gone – mostly my fault. I couldn't seem to focus in on anything, so I started taking uppers and downers. Uppers to help me stay awake, and then downers to help me sleep." For a moment, Warrick stared at the floor before he shrugged and signed, "I became depressed, and found excuses for everything I did wrong."

As Warrick paced, Sara reached out and laid a hand on his arm when he passed, effectively stopping him in his tracks.

When he finally looked her in the eye, she smiled and said, "You've seen me at my worse. I had nightmares. Flashbacks. I woke up sobbing more than once." Removing her hand, she exhaled long and hard, letting her clenched stomach muscles ease, leaving a shakiness that never failed to leave her feeling just a little weak.

"I've been a self-destructive mess the majority of my life," she admitted. "Sure, some may say I've had my reasons, but the fact is that I should have dealt with all the shit handed out to me _years_ ago. Instead, I wasted half my life studying. In books, I didn't really have to live. Then I started my career, moved here, and proceeded to waste _years_ waiting for a man who may have never decided I was worth the risk."

Gruffly, she swiped at her eyes and gave a semi-watery laugh when she quietly said, "I found excuse after excuse to not _live_ my life. Even when Gil and I finally ended up together, I couldn't allow myself… comfort. Instead, I felt uncomfortable letting him love me."

"So you left," Warrick signed.

"Yeah. I left; with only a note, and I don't regret it. If I'd talked to him, he would have convinced me to stay." After gulping down the remnants of her coffee, Sara stood and stepped over to the sink, dropping her cup in the basin. Turning around, she gave Warrick a wobbly smile.

When she said, "I can't regret the years I waited," Warrick watched her eyes go dark, and her lips quirk. Contemplatively, she murmured, "It took getting kidnapped – spending some time wondering what I would have done different – to make me realize that I was still a mess. I'd never _dealt_ with anything. I could still be self-destructive, but now I had Gil to help me."

Returning to Warrick, she took his hand and squeezed. "Don't ever feel like you need to apologize for having a rough time, or for being self-destructive. I get it."

Wrapping his arms around her shoulders, Warrick hugged her close. Eventually pulling back, he ruefully supplied, "I need to get on with my life. Get a job. Finish my therapy – mental and physical. And I love the man, but I have to move out of Nick's house."

Laughing, Sara offered, "How about we go through the paper? I'll lay odds we can find something before we have to meet up with everyone at the end of shift." As she crossed the kitchen to sort through the newspapers stacked on a small side table, she shrugged and tossed out, "Besides, I've slept on our Murphy bed. It's not that comfortable."

**X X X**

Due to arriving so late, Grissom ended up spending the few hours remaining of his shift in his office reviewing paperwork, reading through journals, and really wishing the night would end. Yet even at the end of the night, he knew the morning would bring the gathering _back_ into his office.

So as shift ended, he wasn't surprised when Greg stuck his head in and grinned. "Hey, Grissom. I'm the first?"

"Come on in," Grissom said, waving the young man in. Pulling off his glasses, he set them on his desk, and tapped his fingers. For a moment, he hesitated, feeling a little like an idiot. "I'd like to ask you a personal question," he finally stated. Drawing a breath through his nostrils, he could smell a hint of Greg's cologne waft off the young man, and realized just how much older the _kid_ had become. "Why do you do this job?"

Greg may have expected an unusual or enigmatic question from his boss, but not _that_ question. Feeling put on the spot, Greg frowned and took a seat in the chair across from Grissom. Since Sara left, he'd watched the older man go through many transitions and phases, and Greg doubted Grissom even realized how invariably _obvious_ he was. Hell, since the day Sara walked into their lives, Greg had watched the two of them dance, wishing she'd stop long enough to look in his direction, and finally settling for friendship.

In the meantime, Greg had watched Grissom go through confusion to contentment, pain to anguish, acceptance to utter fatigue, and finally… back to confusion _and_ contentment. A strange combination to say the least.

"You know, I wanted to become a CSI because it challenged me. There was a sense of excitement about the job, and in the end it made me… I don't know… grow up?" Greg said. For a moment, he contemplated his wording, eventually deciding to simply be blunt. "But this job doesn't define me."

Grissom heard the unspoken, "like it defines you," and accepted the truth in the statement.

**X X X**

Once everyone had arrived and settled in, it was nearly nine o'clock, with Ecklie being the straggler. He'd been waylaid by the press yet again, having to answer questions regarding the crime lab's ability to maintain accuracy and chain of evidence, given the man who slowly took over the case had turned out to be the prime suspect in the shooting of CSI Brown and Officer Pritchard.

"You know, I've never had a problem dealing with the press," Ecklie stated, closing the door to Grissom's office, and shuffling over to take the seat. "That said, I have to say, they're damn vultures about this case."

"Yeah, well, how often do you get the chance to arrest your boss?" Nick asked.

"Not often enough?" Catherine replied, grinning.

"Okay, boys and girls. It's time to quit the fun and games, and get down to business," Brass stated. "And I think I'm the best person to talk about the case." He paused, making sure he had everyone's attention when he stated, "I may have been primary on the case, but that didn't keep McKeen from taking over – particularly as time went on and we couldn't come up with a solid suspect."

Running a hand over his face, Brass felt himself grow cold and feverish all at once, as he recalled the sense of personal failure that had weighed him down.

**X X X**

Brass strode into the bank, warrant in hand, feeling like perhaps today would be the day _something_ would provide that break that continually eluded them. The forensic accountants that had been pouring over Gedda's books had found a safety deposit box. Maybe… just maybe… they'd find something to link McKeen directly to Gedda. After all, Warrick felt fairly certain McKeen had been the shooter, even if the memories were faulty, inconsistent, and vague… yet they still confirmed in Brass's mind what the detective already knew.

No sooner had he stepped into the cool air conditioned building than Brass damn near let out a string of curses; McKeen already stood, waiting, with the bank manager.

"Detective," McKeen said, his face a perfect study of sobriety. "Here's hoping we find something, Brass. For Warrick."

Every fucking time he said some pithy thing like that, Brass wanted to smash his pretty face in. "Yeah," Brass stated, not even pretending to like the undersheriff.

As the manager escorted the police officers to the vault, he retrieved the warrant from Brass, and briskly stated, "If you will give me a moment, I shall have the container opened for you and brought to this table." Indicating a dark blue cloth-covered table in the middle of the room, McKeen and Brass stood back, and Brass quietly pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

It took only a moment before the container was settled on the table, a box about eighteen inches deep, fifteen inches wide and six inches high. With relished anticipation, Brass ignored all around him as he lifted the lid to reveal the sparse contents.

Reaching in, McKeen murmured, "About… what… fifty thousand in cash."

And under the bundles of hundreds was a ledger, which Brass deftly snagged. With McKeen distracted, Brass turned his back to the undersheriff and began reviewing the book; and when McKeen finally realized what the detective held, Brass started clearly and concisely relating facts about the book – loud enough for the bank manager and other officers present to hear.

"This is excellent," Brass stated. "It's not a current ledger, but it's complete. I've flipped through and there are no pages missing. It covers from the mid-1990's until a few years ago."

"Detective, I've got to go to the lab anyway, so why don't I go ahead and take that?" McKeen genially asked.

"Actually," Brass replied, a semi-apologetic look plastered on his face. Raising his hand, he looked beyond McKeen's shoulders to Gil Grissom. "Gil accompanied me. We were hopeful to find something."

**X X X**

"How did the ledger tie it all together?" Nick asked.

"Not easily," Ecklie replied. Ruefully, he supplied, "Actually, McKeen gave us the clue where to look. We'd been struggling over the entries in the ledger for damn near a month. The codes led to initials, and we figured out the most likely suspects in a few cases. It wasn't until McKeen walked in wearing a tux, and mentioned that he and his wife were celebrating their anniversary that things clicked."

"We found the link. It may not have been direct from McKeen to Gedda, but it was close enough," Brass stated.

"And we finally understood _why_," Grissom stated.

"It was McKeen's father-in-law who had close ties to Gedda," Ecklie explained. "Jimmy O'Farrell not only financed his son's political career, but he used his many business ventures to filter money from Gedda and pour it into McKeen's career, as well."

"Well damn," Nick muttered. "McKeen killed Gedda because of _politics_?"

"No," Grissom corrected. "Because of money."


	18. Chapter 18

**Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death (Chapter 18)  
Rating:** M  
**Author:** CSIGeekFan  
**Beta:** seattlecsifan. I have the best beta in the world. Thank you for being so patient!  
**Pairings:** Grissom/Sara, Warrick, Team  
**Spoilers:** Season 8  
**Disclaimer:** If I can't own the franchise, can I at least get a couple of autograph pictures?

**X X X**

As the gathering in Grissom's office broke up, Catherine watched as one-by-one everyone sauntered out. During the last of the telling – the technical accounting and documentation forensics which had occurred – the experienced CSI had let herself simply observe. Sure, she'd listened because it affected someone she loved; even if loving Warrick would never be clearly defined, straight, or simple.

For the first time in over a year, she watched Warrick smile openly and appear truly relaxed. Without emotional fatigue clouding him, everything in his face seemed so open and engaging. She'd forgotten how much she missed him.

A movement out of the corner of her eye had captured her attention, and she'd watched Grissom's had sneak out to lay on Sara's knee. From her vantage spot, she could easily watch the brunette lay her palm over his.

What had surprised her most, however, was the way his hand had fumbled to grasp Sara's fingers… trembling until she'd twined her fingers through his in a calming gesture.

Finally, with the questions answered, everyone began to depart, and she continued to watch. Greg passed Catherine, and she could only stare at the man. Somewhere along the way, faint lines on his forehead had begun to form, and she couldn't figure out when he'd become so _grown up_. When the young CSI winked and picked up his pace to catch up with Nick and Warrick, Catherine couldn't help but wonder why she felt so ancient.

"Yeah, he makes me feel like an old bastard sometimes," Brass murmured, standing near her.

Chuckling, Catherine turned her head and wryly added, "That he does. And then I remember I have a teenage daughter, and _she_ makes me feel old."

"Well, let an old man buy you breakfast," Brass offered, holding out his arm. Grinning, she gladly accepted. She not only enjoyed spending time with Jim, but thought of him as a good friend. Moreover, though, she had a few things to say to him.

**X X X**

Greg, Warrick, and Nick gathered around the table at Frank's, eager to tuck into something substantial to eat, and looking forward to a chance to talk. The fact was, the typical stereotype of women gossiping fit this particular grouping of men more than their female counterparts.

"So, things are serious between you and Stephanie?" Greg inquired. When Nick didn't answer, Greg glanced in his direction, pulled a double-take, and started laughing. It was easy to follow the Texan's line-of-sight right to the woman in question.

Warrick shook his head, a grin splitting his face. Pulling out a piece of paper, he wrote a note, balled it up, and tossed it directly at Nick's forehead.

Awkwardly embarrassed, Nick stopped staring and glanced around. Picking up the note, he flipped it open, read the single word, and replied, "Ha. Ha."

Grabbing it out of Nick's hand, Greg read it off and started laughing.

In capital letters, the message was simple: _WHIPPED_

**X X X**

Sara pulled the car in the garage, shut it off, and turned to face her sleeping husband. He'd drifted off on the drive – surprisingly – because he usually fought against her getting within a hundred feet of the car keys. However, this morning he'd quietly handed them over, slid into the passenger seat, and buckled up.

Worriedly, she reached over and ran the back of her fingers over the rough facial hair, noting the dark bags under his eyes and creased brow, as if he worried even in his slumber.

As his eyes fluttered open, and he made an attempt to smile, she felt a lump form in her throat. Leaning over, Sara let a kiss linger over the same cheek she'd caressed, and breathed in the scent of him. For several minutes, they stayed like that.

**X X X**

Catherine eyed Brass from across the intimate booth. She'd chosen a quiet place in one of the casinos, so she could talk to the detective.

After the waitress discreetly poured their coffee and backed away, Catherine said, "You could have told us what was going on." Taking a sip of the rich dark roast, she set the cup carefully back on the saucer with the tiniest clink and watched Brass.

He contemplated her, unsure of the best way to talk to her about this issue in particular. So damn many things could have gone so wrong, which was why he agreed with Grissom. Hell, he'd regretted getting Sara involved almost immediately, and getting anyone else involved would have aggravated the ulcer his doctor had diagnosed just a couple of months ago.

"Look, Catherine, you have to understand where Grissom and I were coming from."

She did, although she disagreed. In the end, though, Catherine knew she had to tell Brass what she felt. Because of all that had happened, she was terribly afraid she'd destroyed her relationship with her best friend. Over the years, Grissom had stood up for her more times than she could count, and not just on the job.

"I threw accusations at him, Jim," she stated, feeling her eyes mist already. Her throat felt thick with emotion, and she drew a deep breath. "I told him he was emotionless, careless with his relationships, and I think I once even told him he was a pathetic excuse for a man."

At the last of that statement, the moisture in her eyes spilled over.

"I was so angry," she stated. "He pushed us out and away, and I lost faith."

"Don't," Jim replied, soberly. "Don't beat yourself up over it, Cath. The fact is, he pushed you out for a reason, and expected your reaction. He knew what he was doing."

"But don't you get it?" she asked. Reaching her hand out, she waited for Jim to lay his over hers and answered, "I don't think he's ever lost faith in me. Sure, he's questioned me a few times – made me think of my responsibilities. But I don't think he's ever lost his faith in me, regardless of the bad decisions I've made."

While she withdrew her hand and picked up her coffee cup, Jim watched her, and knew that no matter how much he wished he could say different, damage _had_ been done on both sides.

That's why he didn't know how to honestly respond when Catherine said, "I think I may have lost my best friend."

**X X X**

Sara rolled over, expecting to find her husband, but instead found cool sheets. Sitting up groggily, she looked around the room, trying to get her bearings.

A quick glance at the clock showed that it was 4:30pm and she wondered where he could be – by all rights, they should still be in bed, as it had been nearing lunch when they finally dropped off to sleep. As tired as he'd been lately, Sara had resolved herself to try and get him to relax.

Tossing on a robe, she headed out to the rest of their domain, and it didn't take her long to figure out he wasn't anywhere in their home.

Petting Hank, she murmured, "He's probably finishing up paperwork at the office."

That suited her just fine, because she fully intended to have them packed and ready for some R&R by the time he got home. He needed a break. They needed a break.

Sara didn't consider herself much of a romantic, but she surprised even herself. Two weeks on Kauai with a private beach – peace and quiet. They could sleep whenever they wished, they could have wild sex whenever they wished.

"Hell, I can screw his brains out on the beach if I want," she murmured to the dog, before giddily scratching Hank behind his ear. "Oh yeah. This is gonna work."

**X X X**

Grissom pulled up in front of the Desert State Mental Hospital, with ultra care set the parking brake, and proceeded to lay his palms on the steering wheel, straighten his arms, stretch out his fingers, and then clench them. Not quite withholding the yell of anger, he sunk his head onto his chest, feeling waves of heat rise up his back and neck. Every nerve was on fire, and he had to force himself to slow his shallow breathing.

It took five minutes before he could calmly walk through the front doors of the mental institution – that place that housed the violently, criminally insane. He had an appointment that he wasn't about to miss.

"Dr. Grissom, it's good to see you," Dr. Kachler said. Apparently the psychiatrist had been waiting, because he stood next to the guard's desk when the CSI walked in.

"Dr. Kachler," Grissom replied.

"Dr. Grissom, I'm going to be frank with you and explain a few things about the patient before you are permitted to speak with her," Kachler stated, who led Grissom to his office.

Indicating an arm chair, Kachler waved for Grissom to take a seat and explained, "It's taken us a hell of a long time to get Natalie stabilized. With severe paranoid schizophrenia, we've managed to find a cocktail that leaves her as lucid as I've seen her. Realistically, I know she's never going to be fully functioning or even cognizant of her actions."

"All right," Grissom quietly replied.

Blowing out a hard breath, Kachler got to the heart of the matter. "Dr. Grissom, I need you to understand something here. I know you want some answers, but you need to realize that you may never get them from her. Not clearly, at any rate."

Impatiently, Grissom sat up straight, and said, "I am fully aware that I may not get anything out of her, but I need to do this. Physically, the attack was on Sara, but _I _was the target. I need to talk to her."


	19. Chapter 19

**Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death (Chapter 19)  
Rating:** M  
**Author:** CSIGeekFan  
**Beta:** seattlecsifan. I have the best beta in the world. Thank you for being so patient!  
**Pairings:** Grissom/Sara, Warrick, Team  
**Spoilers:** Season 8  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Well… I _do_ own an ugly floral couch. I just don't own any of the characters on CSI to strip naked on the couch and… what was I saying?

Her hair seemed darker than he remembered, and somehow that single change in her threw his entire train of thought off; Gil Grissom suddenly felt a jolt uncertainty course down his spine about the meeting. He understood psychosis and psychotic breaks; even mental illness made sense in a twisted kind of way.

It was the fact that she could so easily see through him that bothered him so much. In the end, it was Natalie Davis's ability to see through to the core of him, when even _he_ couldn't see _himself_ that clearly, that terrified him.

Taking a seat across the metal table from her, Grissom looked around the small sterile room that was painted white and trimmed in hospital green. He hated so much about this place – the color, the taste that hung in the air, the smell.

Sara had said it smelled like lies. The antiseptic tang permeated everywhere, as if the nurses worked so hard to cover up the smell of stale urine and feces that they created something worse.

At the door, a middle-aged Dr. Kachler stood, watching. The psychiatrist had clearly stated his intent to step in should he feel the need.

Staring intently, Grissom mildly stated, "Hello, Natalie," and watched her lips twitch upward. When she tilted her head forward, stringy strands of hair fell over her shoulders, and she combed her fingers through them.

"Hello," she said, her voice lilting high and low like a little girl. With a child's pout, she said, "You haven't come and seen me, even though you like my models."

At the word 'models', Grissom felt his nerves jump, trying to understand her. She had wanted him to visit? Was she out of her goddamn mind?

Opening his mouth, he realized he couldn't seem to breathe, and drew a hard shaky breathe, wondering at the fatigue he felt. Because in that moment, he saw it in her eyes.

In the crystal blue, he found something he'd never understood. Sara was right – in this place, it smelled like lies, and he got it.

Because in the end, the truth had to come from him, not from Natalie.

He'd been too fucking afraid to let Sara see him, to let her claim him. Without a doubt, Grissom knew he and Sara would have continued on the same path – giving into whatever satisfied them, while still keeping a distance. She'd been willing to put up with his pure bullshit, because she loved him. Instead of admitting how completely terrified he was to opening himself up to the potential pain, he'd held her at arms length, knowing that he could keep her there.

"I have nothing for you," he muttered to Natalie. Standing awkwardly, Grissom stumbled his way to the door. Wordlessly, and soundlessly, he made his way through the hospital and beyond the front doors.

Natalie hadn't taken Sara from him. He'd done that himself by not accepting and not wanting to recognize in himself his fear of rejection. So much time had been wasted because he hadn't wanted to open himself to the potential of pain.

Shivering in the late afternoon heat, Grissom started the car, and headed home, unsure of how to proceed, but knowing he needed to talk to Sara… to make it up to her. To them.

**X X X**

He found her reading a journal, with Hank at her feet. The need that brought him home, drove him on with a desperation he hadn't ever experienced before, and Grissom found himself wordlessly pulling Sara to her feet. When she opened her mouth to speak, he kissed her silent, absorbing the texture of her mouth, the taste of her… everything.

As rapidly as he'd claimed her lips, he stepped back, shaking his head.

With her brows raised, Sara watched silently, listening to Grissom's rambling, and growing more concerned when he muttered, "I'm so stupid. I can't do this anymore." With her heart in her throat, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, forcing him to stop his agitated, fidgeting movements.

"What's wrong?" she murmured into his neck, noting the waves of heat pouring from his skin and the throbbing at his pulse point. "Tell me, Gil." Taking his hand, she led him to the couch.

"I should have told you," he said. "I wrote you a stupid goddamn letter while I was on sabbatical, and even then I couldn't just say _I love you_. Instead, I had to quote Shakespeare."

He would have gotten further, but his cell phone rang. Opening his mouth to continue, Sara smiled and nodded for him to take the call.

Frustrated, he flipped it open, said, "Ecklie, I'm busy," and sighed. "Yes, I'll be there. Have Judy put it on my schedule."

"Court?" Sara asked, and he nodded after he hung up.

"The case has been in the media lately, so…" he replied. Shaking himself from work mode, he started again. _She needs to understand. I have to explain it,_ he thought.

"We've known each other for so long," he stated, deciding to take another tack in explaining. "The day we met… I'll probably count that as the most fateful day of my life. This beautiful, vibrant, _young_ woman looked at me with these laughing brown eyes, and told me I should inject a little humor into my lecture."

"Your lecture was a little dry," she responded, grinning. "Not that I cared, because I spent half my time staring at your ass and the other half mooning over your eyes."

Staring at the laughter and general _happiness_ he saw in her face, he trudged onward. To make her see. To make her understand.

"I couldn't give you what you wanted, because I'm a coward, Sara." When she frowned, he added, "I always thought what I was doing was best for _you_, but it was all just… it was just…"

"Goddamn it!" he snarled, when his phone rang again, this time showing Catherine. "What?" he yelled.

"Look, Gil. I'd like to talk to you before shift," Catherine said. "Can we meet in your office?"

"Fine," Grissom replied. "Right now, I need to go." Abruptly, he hung up, frustrated. He'd been on a roll, finally able to understand how to explain it. He knew how to make her see; he just needed the words. Then he needed to spend the rest of his life showing her.

Turning his attention back to his wife, he gripped her hand, said, "I love you, and it took me longer than it should have to say that. I held back because I was so scared of my own ability to feel, to love, but most of all, to hurt."

Glancing down at the simple band, he felt his throat constrict, when he added, "You said you feel as if you've loved me forever. It's something I can understand."

This time, when his phone rang, Grissom picked it up and threw it across the room after noting Brass's caller ID. Parts scattered all over and the demolished device lay lifeless, but he'd accomplished his goal.

"Sara," he began again.

Only this time, _her_ cell phone rang.

Surprised, she noted Brass's caller ID and looked at Grissom. "He'll just keep calling the different phone lines," she murmured, flipping open the cell.

"Is Gil there?" Brass asked, his tone low and sober.

"Yes," Sara replied.

When she handed him the phone, Grissom mumbled, "This had better be important."

"I just saw one of Sara and Warrick's 'guards' from California outside the jail a few hours ago," Brass stated, causing a wave of nausea to crash through Grissom and his chest to begin to burn.

The thundering in his ears began after Brass stated, "And twenty minutes ago, an inmate shoved a sharpened piece of plastic through McKeen's neck."

He couldn't breathe. Standing up, he tried to loosen whatever pressed against his windpipe. The shock of pain took him by surprise, and everything suddenly blurred.

"Sara?" he whispered, before everything went black.


	20. Chapter 20

**Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death (Chapter 20 – FINAL CHAPTER)  
Rating:** M  
**Author:** CSIGeekFan  
**Beta:** seattlecsifan. She has been my rock through the entire series, and I can never find enough words to thank her for making sure I stay on track.  
**Pairings:** Grissom/Sara, Warrick, Team  
**Spoilers:** Season 8  
**Disclaimer:** I may not own the show, but I have had fun just playing with the characters.  
**Author's Note:** I would like to thank all the kind comments I've gotten along the way. I truly hope you enjoy this final chapter.

**X X X**

He held her hand, grinning like a loon, once she closed the back door of the car and settled into the driver's seat.

Hank leaned over the console, slobbering on the entomologist, and Grissom couldn't help but let the bubble of laughter erupt. As Sara rolled her eyes at him, he laughed all the more, and she put the car in gear.

"You really need to get out more," Sara murmured, feeling the infectious merriment in the vehicle flow with giddy energy, as she aimed the car toward the lab.

"Catherine called again," he stated, shrugging. "So did Brass."

Glancing at Grissom, she drolly said, "You just got out of the hospital two days ago _after_ suffering a heart attack. Of course they called."

"And visited me nearly every day I was there," he said. "Honestly? It's nice knowing they care, but the only person I wanted seeing my bare ass walk down the hall was _you_, and _you_ couldn't seem to stop laughing."

"Yeah, well, if you'd seen the look on Nick's face when that happened…" she trailed off, pulling that particular memory from several weeks ago to the front of her mind. She'd never seen Nick's jaw drop that far, and while she'd heard stories of kids shooting water or milk out their nose, the cola that had shot out of Greg's had given everyone a great deal of entertainment. Well… that, and watching the gown part to show Grissom's bare ass walk down the hall.

"Are you sure?" she asked once again. "Are you sure this is okay? You're barely out of the hospital."

Reaching over, he gripped her hand, said, "Honey, I don't just want this. I need this, and so do you."

Driving by the lab, Sara admired the building in which she used to work. As they passed, she wondered at the significance – leaving it behind. "The movers are just waiting for us to let them know where to ship everything." Glancing at Grissom, she asked, "So. Where do you want to go?"

Smiling, he let his eyelids drift closed, and said, "Just aim for the sun. I get the feeling I could use a little more sunlight in my life."

**X X X**

Catherine walked into Grissom's office, sighing over the full 'In' box she'd cleared yesterday. Grumbling under her breath, she picked up the stack and turned to leave, nearly slamming into Ecklie.

"Catherine," he greeted, a pained look on his face.

Recognizing this as Ecklie's 'I have unpleasant news that you're not going to like' look, she inwardly sighed and asked, "Do you need something?"

"Actually, no," he replied. Pulling out a name plate, he dropped it on Grissom's desk: **Catherine Willows - CSI Supervisor.**

While she stared, Ecklie explained, "I couldn't talk him out of it. They're already gone."

For a moment, Catherine could only stare, and do everything in her power to not start weeping. It wouldn't do for her first act as graveyard shift supervisor to be uncontrollable sobbing. Finally drawing a few deep breaths, she leveled herself the best she could and asked, "Did he leave a note? Anything?"

"No," Ecklie responded. "He… they… wanted me to say goodbye and good luck."

**X X X**

**Author's Note 2:** Again, I would like to thank everyone for reading. I've received a lot of kind (at often times humbling) comments. Thank you very much for the support and encouragement I've received along this journey. It's been fun to write the story, and I hope you have enjoyed the small contribution I have made to CSI fan fiction.


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